


Gate to Tomorrow

by purglepurglepurgle



Category: Original Work
Genre: Action, Attempt at Humor, Comedy, Gen, Ghosts, Humor, Mild Peril, Teamwork makes the dream work, Urban Fantasy, useless robots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2020-04-23 11:32:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 57,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19150171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purglepurglepurgle/pseuds/purglepurglepurgle
Summary: Sam Burbank can see ghosts. A schoolgirl by day, by night she gets paid a stingy wage to lay cantankerous spirits to rest, for the Gate to Tomorrow company. She's excited to make a difference. Unfortunately, the team are Mostly Useless, the missions tend to end in disaster-- and when the group incur the wrath of a murderous ghost, things go from NOPE to NOPENOPENOPE in the time it takes to read this book. Updates on Fridays.





	1. Gate to Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in 2011, and was mostly written around then. I was never satisfied with it, and it has since been gathering dust on my harddrive, so I've finally put it up somewhere other folk can see it and maybe get a laugh out of it. Thanks to S.Zix for beta-reading, way back when!

Toto squeaked as a serrated shark tooth shot over his head, smashing through the window behind him. He hadn't even realised there _was_ a window. As he hopped down from atop a display case, heart pounding, he heard a giggle from behind a pillar.

“Not funny!” Toto said, shaking. “That could've been me!”

“You really _squeaked_!” Sam teased. “You sounded like a dog or something.”

Toto narrowed his eyes, but the effect was spoilt as a fossil smacked into his forehead. Blinking and massaging the bridge of his nose, he crawled over to the nearest cabinet, taking refuge behind it. “You know, whenever you’re ready, you can help me out."

“This is more fun,” said Sam, but she stopped laughing as a cold voice crackled over her earpiece.

“Hurry up and finish the job. I'm not paying you to stand around making fun of Tobias.”

“Thank you!” said Toto, with an approving nod.

“Although if you come up with an insult that's imaginative enough, I'll give you half of Emily's wage.”

Sam grinned. “Yessir!” She peeked out from behind the pillar. The ghost stalked across the room, tattered skirts whipping the floor in silence; she’d tired of tossing fossils at Toto's cabinet with no result. Bending by the broken window, she brushed her curls back from her face, lace flounces rippling.

 _What's she up to?_ thought Sam.

Sliding a hand along the ground, the ghost smiled, then straightened up. Sam's stomach looped as she realised that the ghost held a piece of glass.

“Toto, you need to move!” Sam shouted. “The ghost's by the window, and she's coming towards you, and she's got a bit of glass, and oh, never mind, she's heard me, she's coming this way, damn it.” Sam darted out from behind the pillar and raced across the room, squeaking as something sharp, transparent and shard-of-glass-y whizzed past her ear. Toto snickered.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I do believe we heard a squeak!”

Sam swore into her headset. “Vanessa, Director! Did you hear what I just said?”

“Yes,” the Director replied. “You should wash your mouth out with soap.”

Sam heard Vanessa groan in the background.

The Director sighed. “Yes, I heard you. The ghost is violent and dangerous, correct?”

“Yeah...” said Sam.

“All the more reason to send it on quickly, then,” said the Director. Sam scowled, imagining his smug accompanying smirk, but there was no time to stand around wishing him a violent death at the hands of the _un_ dead; the ghost was marching towards her.

“Lawrence?” Toto asked the Director, watching Sam skitter off across the room once more. “How're we supposed to get rid of this ghost if we don't know anything about her? We can't know what she wants until we know who she is, and she's not really a conversationalist...”

“The usual, I suppose. Whenever you're ready.”

“... I was hoping you wouldn't say that.” Toto sighed. “No, give us a few minutes. I want to _try_ to do it ethically, at least.”

Sam ran in circles around a T-Rex skeleton in the centre of the room, ducking and diving under the rocks that seemed, to Toto, to come flying from the very walls themselves. Admiring her agility, he wondered what it was like to see ghosts, and what they looked like, what--

“Toto, she's headed your way; you need to move!” Sam's warning came too late; the ghost descended upon Toto, rapping him on the forehead with an ammonite. Sam winced as her friend was forced to curl up in a protective ball. “Director, do we know _anything_ about this woman?”

“It’s rumoured that she inhabits a museum.”

Sam pursed her lips, trying to glean some useful information from the circumstances. She looked at the ghost, which was now whacking Toto with imprints of several varieties of dead fish. Nothing sprang to mind. "Toto, any ideas?"

“Don't ask me!” Toto gasped as the ghost smacked him again. “Look, can you distract her or something? My bruises have bruises!”

Sam nodded (though Toto couldn't see it), took a deep breath, then ran into the middle of the room, waving her arms in the air and bellowing. It had the desired effect. As Sam ran away from the ghost again, Toto stretched out, rubbed his cheek and winced as his fingernails scraped against a large gash. He fumbled through his rucksack for a plaster, then froze as he noticed that the T-Rex skeleton had started to shake.

“Um, Sam--”

“Not now!” Sam dashed between display cases, the ghost’s skirts fluttering in her peripheral vision.

Toto jigged his foot, gaze fixed on the T-Rex. Now he could _hear_ it rattling. “Sam--”

“Toto, if I die, it will be _your_ fault!”

Toto gasped as a single T-Rex toe detached itself, flew at Sam, and jabbed her in the neck.

“Ow! What the hell?” Sam saw the dinosaur and swore. “Why didn’t you _tell_ me- oh, you know what, never mind, right, I'm going to try to get her out of this room.” Sam backed towards the door. “Then we won't need to worry about him.” She pointed at the T-Rex. “When I shout, follow me!”

Toto nodded, scrabbling in his rucksack for a plaster. “Sounds good. Be careful.”

Sam let out a sharp laugh, and a moment later the door swung shut. Toto assumed that the ghost had followed her through. He found a plaster and stuck it on; he had a feeling that a dressing would've been more appropriate, but he didn't think he'd have time to apply one. Gazing around in the quiet, he felt tiny under the high ceiling, against the stone pillars. Chill air rushed in through the hole in the window, and he wondered if the ghost had felt scared or alone when she died, wondered how she felt now--

“Toto! Here, now, dammit!”

Toto sighed and got to his feet. He liked to imagine that there was always a 'please' implied.

When he found the display room (he followed the sound of bangs and crashes), he noticed a few things that made him want to get a new identity and emigrate. Several display cabinets had been overturned, scattering glass, wooden splinters and taxidermied wildlife all over the floor. A fox lay six paces away, sans head. Toto also noticed that the stairs at the far end of the room now ended three feet too early. If the group got paid for this job, Toto would suspect foul play.

“Sam?” he called, picking his way over the cracked, faux-marble floor. Silence. He took a few more tentative steps, and was about to give another shout, when a creaking noise made him look up.

A sizeable whale skeleton hung from the ceiling, suspended on wires.

“Awkward...” murmured Toto as the wires stretched, twisting, and the whale swung forward with a loud rattle. Something quick, gangly, and purple-haired shoved him out of the way as the skeleton lurched, wires snapping, and the whole thing crashed to the ground.

“Thanks, Sam,” Toto gasped, leaning against the remains of a display case and trying not to cough on the plumes of rising dust. “Lawrence,” he said into his headset, “I know we said we'd try sending her on ourselves, but I don't think we can do it alone, and I think we'll be facing a lawsuit if we stay any longer. Can you talk to her for us?”

The Director made a murmur of assent. “You're sure?”

“Um, Sam?” asked Toto, trying to quell the guilt that made his stomach writhe.

Sam nodded. “Yeah, I think she's about two-hundred years dead, so it should work.”

“Very well. Both of you, take off your headsets, and I'll set them to loudspeaker.”

“Thanks.”

They did as Lawrence instructed. For a moment, silence clung like tar, and Toto felt severed from the outside world. His gaze flicked around, his skin tingling, his mind flitting to images of hospital beds and vital results. Could Sam hear his quick breaths? Then Lawrence's voice streamed over the speakers.

“Restless spirit, do you hear me?”

Sam saw the ghost staring around the room, trying to locate the source of the voice.

“Evidently so. It is I, he who commands all and knows all. Why do you not rest?”

Toto frowned. He reckoned Lawrence had done that on purpose.

“Answer me, spirit. I know you speak not, but there are quills and paper enough in the green knapsack. Write your message within.”

Gingerly, the ghost tiptoed across to Toto's rucksack, from which she removed a notepad and pen. After inspecting said pen (Sam supposed that biros, much like loudspeaker headsets, hadn't been too common in early Victorian England), the ghost wrote her message. When she had finished, the Director spoke again.

“Step away from the page. Now, Samantha, mine avatar that treads on earthen ground, read the message inscribed thereupon.”

Sam picked up the notebook, keeping an eye on the ghost just in case. She glowered as she saw that the ghost had written two full pages in minuscule handwriting.

“Do I have to read it all?” she said. “Or can I just give you the gist?” The Director started to speak, but Sam cut him off; he sounded like he was going to tell her to read the whole thing. “Well, basically, she, er, got squashed by a falling cabinet- her name's Roberta, by the way-- and then... something about a lover... his son killed him; she's not happy about that... and war... and now she hates the world and everyone in it and she'll destroy us all, one at a time, and all the fossils, too, because they remind her of 'the endless cycle of death that is life'... cheerful...”

“You know,” mused Toto, “I bet that story was really interesting, exciting and touching in its original form. _Haunting,_ if you will.”

Sam scowled. “It was also long.”

Toto sighed. “Oh well. At least it wasn't in nonsense language this time, right?”

Sam picked up a nearby whale bone and chucked it at him. Toto was referring to their very first group encounter with a ghost, when, largely by accident, they'd managed to send the thing on. At one point, the ghost had communicated with them via possession, and Sam had cried out that Vanessa was speaking in tongues; the Director had dryly informed Sam that Vanessa was speaking in German.

The Director addressed Roberta's ghost.

“So, I ask of you-- what is your heart's desire? Write your answer upon another page.”

Sam leaned over the ghost's shoulder and read the scrawl aloud. “She wishes for the apocalypse, and for blood to rain, and for a great pestilence to ravage the land and all humans who tread upon it—and to see her boyfriend again.”

“Well...” The Director hesitated. “According to laws moste ancient and cosmick, only one wish from wishes four may be granted. What was the name of your lover?”

Sam attempted to read the answer. "'Leo-thingy’; I have no idea how that's pronounced... Er, ‘Leo-f-whine’? ‘Leo-f-wynn’? ‘Le--'"

"That will do!" the Director cut in. "Fortuitously, it just so happens that we granted this gentleman eternal rest not three months past!” Sam and Toto exchanged a look, but kept quiet. “Therefore, at the moment of your ascent to the heavens, you shall see him once more! Travel on, post-haste!”

Sam shielded her eyes as the ghost lit up neon blue, beaming for a moment and illuminating the room, before retracting into a small orb and then disappearing altogether.

To Toto, meanwhile, it appeared as though nothing had changed. “Er... what's going on? Is she still there?”

Sam shook her head. “Nope. Gone. Good work, Director!”

The Director coughed over the loudspeaker. “We're quite lucky; I thought she was going to demand the destruction of the known and unknown omniverse. Keep her letter, just in case we bump into that bloke of hers, then pack up, and we'll call it a night.”

Sam picked her headset up and turned towards the door. She glanced at Toto and paused; he was standing still, holding the ghost's letter, biting his lip.

“What's up?” Sam asked, although she already had a fair idea.

Toto turned the letter over. “I... I really don't like it when we lie to ghosts. Especially when Lawrence plays God like that. I know it helps them to move on, but it just feels... wrong.” He folded the letter up, taking care not to crumple the corners or smudge a single word.

“What else would you suggest?” the Director's voice trickled over the loudspeaker.

“Oh, don't.” Toto flicked the headset's 'off' switch. “Come on, Sam, let's go.”

They left the display room and walked down the staircase to the entrance, breath forming clouds in the cold November air. The third member of the group, Emily, waited on a plastic bench in the foyer. Buried in an AS Level History textbook, she repeated certain clauses aloud, reading with the aid of a small torch. She seemed oblivious to her approaching team-mates. Sam purposefully squeaked her foot, and was rewarded by the sight of Emily leaping about three feet into the air.

“You're back!” Emily gasped, stumbling up once she'd recovered from the shock. “Goodness, you two took ages! I'm freezing...”

Since Emily wore a hat, gloves, scarf and coat, all of which Sam lacked, Sam found it pretty difficult to sympathise. Toto, however, didn't seem to have a grudge.

“Ahh, yeah, sorry; there were some complications...” Toto laughed. “But we sorted it out in the end! So that's...”

Emily pointed her torch at his face, staring.

“Toto, what _happened_ in there?!”

Toto shuffled from foot to foot. “It's nothing serious...”

“Your face is _covered_ in bruises, and your cheek is bleeding and, I mean, I heard a window smash, but I thought it was just you two being clumsy!”

(“Thanks,” muttered Sam.)

“--But if the ghost was really violent and I wasn't there then that's awful of me! I am so, so sorry-- I really didn't know-- I'd've been in there in a flash if I had-- oh guys-- Sam, are you okay? I am so sorry!”

She really did look sorry, so Sam bumped her shoulder. "It's alright; it's not like you can see ghosts, anyway, and you can't run fast or anything; you'd've been useless."

Emily touched her scarf. "Thanks... I think...” She looked back up at Sam and gave a start. “Um, Sam, why is your hair white?"

“Whale dust.”

“What?”

“The ghost knocked down a whale. Turns out they don’t dust the whale.”

Emily’s mouth opened in a small ‘o’. “A _whale_? Do you know how much that _costs_?” Something else registered. “Not to mention, whales are enormous!”

“You don’t say,” said Sam.

Emily ignored her. “Since when have ghosts been so _strong_?”

“Maybe she’s been weight-training,” suggested Toto. “But yeah, it did worry me.”

Sam nodded slowly. “Yeah.” Up until now, they’d believed that ghosts couldn’t manipulate anything bigger than a branch (until Flora had knocked Vanessa out with that branch, Sam hadn’t believed that ghosts could move objects at all). “I was thinking-- looks like they’re more _dangerous_ than we thought, too. Something tells me the Director’s going to be a pain about this.”

As they walked down the path towards the main road, Toto told Emily what had just happened, while Sam dawdled a few feet behind them. Toto and Emily had known each other for much longer than Sam had known either of them, and she always felt a little excluded from the conversation when they were together. While she didn't exactly dislike Emily, she couldn't help but notice her remarkable knack for avoiding danger, doing the least, and getting paid the most. Toto said she deserved the highest wage as compensation for dating his brother, who, according to Toto, looked like Jinpachi Mishima and dressed like Voldo.

When they reached the main road, the Director's car waited for them. The Director was mysteriously absent; Vanessa held the wheel.

“You’re chauffeuring now?” teased Toto as the team climbed in. “That's... interesting.”

Vanessa ignored him, reapplying her blue lipstick with the aid of the rear view mirror. The Director's voice rippled over the car's speaker system.

“It's hardly surprising, Tobias; Vanessa may try to disguise her kindness and generosity, but once you get to know her--”

Vanessa silenced the speaker system with a flick of a switch, her face devoid of emotion. “One of these days, I will kill that man,” she said in a conversational tone. She turned to her passengers. “I am driving you all back tonight, and tonight only, because an emergency has arisen at the company and Lawrence needs to fix it within the next hour or _I_ lose money. If that should happen, he would do well to go into hiding. I don't know what rules Lawrence has when he babysits you all, but these are mine, and you will obey them if you have any sense in those lumbering lumps of mush you affectionately call brains: don't touch the windows, don't squawk, and don't make the seats sticky or indulge in any other horrible habits that your parents failed to beat out of you in your toddling years. If you sing, I will reverse the car into a tree at breakneck speed. Do I make myself clear?”

The team nodded nervously. Coming from anyone else, that would have sounded silly and patronising, but according to rumours, Vanessa had murdered her own parents.

“Oh, and Samantha?” Vanessa continued. “If you throw one of your usual tantrums when we drive through ghosts, I’ll throw you out of this car. You will walk the rest of the way. Clear?”

Sam scowled. “How would _you_ like it if you were just minding your own business in the backseat and then suddenly, bam! All these _dead_ people start zipping through you and--”

“If, Sam, as a sixteen year old, you’re comfortable walking alone through inner city Manchester at 4am, your looks and brains are evenly matched.” Vanessa stamped on the accelerator.

Sam grumbled and slumped back in her seat, folding her arms.

Seeing Sam open her mouth, Emily cut in, “Um, if the Director’s not there now, when will he pay us?”

“Tomorrow. Go to the usual place after school.”

“Are there any more missions lined up?” asked Toto.

Vanessa nodded curtly.

“Where?” asked Sam.

“Tomorrow,” said Vanessa. “You’re too dim and too tired; if I tell you anything now, you’ll just forget it. I won’t waste my breath.” She yanked the car around a corner, and soon the museum had slipped out of sight.


	2. The Mission

The next day, Sam felt a little tired, if 'a little tired' was equivalent to 'nearly dead from exhaustion, with stinging eyes and a headache that felt like six woodpeckers were battering away at her skull, their beaks lined with sandpaper and razorblades that glinted in the morning light'. She also had trouble thinking in a straight line. After all, she'd been racing around until 4:07am trying to get rid of a murderous ghost, then had only three hours of sleep before it was time to drag herself up for VI form. The Director insisted that his ghost eviction squad stayed on top of their education, so he wouldn't pay them if they took the day off following a job. Sam suspected that condition was illegal, but then she wasn't too sure of the legal status of her work as a whole.

Shambling down the street, Sam felt lightheaded, and her sense of balance kept playing tricks. She paused when she reached the bus stop. Should she risk getting the bus today, or should she play it safe and shuffle forward on foot? She dithered for a minute or so, then decided to walk, even though she'd be late; the bus was a lost cause for someone who could see ghosts.

To Sam, ghosts looked just like living, breathing people. On buses, more often than not, every seat would look like it was occupied, and the only way Sam could find out whether or not a seat was empty was to sit on it. After one particularly bad experience attempting to sit through a nineteenth century gentleman (who’d turned out to have a pulse, a broken leg and a passion for Steampunk), she'd given up on public transport.

In school, lessons passed in a fog, though she was awake enough to notice that Toto was absent. She wondered if the Director had made an exception to his rule after seeing Toto's injuries. Her train of thought fell off a cliff when her Maths teacher called on her. (Sam had decided to drop English Literature after GCSE, because she didn't think she could stomach another two years of micro-analysing poems until she hated them. Instead, she'd chosen AS Level Mathematics, as her mum had convinced her that it would be 'useful'.) After an embarrassing exchange with the Maths teacher, where Sam suggested that 'polynomial' meant 'food for multiple gnomes', she left the classroom with the happy knowledge that if she didn't ace her five late pieces of homework by Monday, she'd face detention for the rest of her life.

When she got home, she dutifully took out her Maths books, shoved them in the wardrobe, then went straight to bed. The vacuum woke her up after two hours. Groggily rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she didn't feel much better, but money was money-- plus she wanted to find out about her next mission. A few minutes later, her dad looked surprised to see her in her coat .

“If you're going out, then don't forget, it's tea in about an hour. Oh, by the way, how was the concert?”

Sam looked at him blankly. “Er...”

“The school concert, did it go well? I hope you thanked, er, Emily's family for letting you stay over. It's a shame your mother couldn't give you a lift... We'll have to reciprocate sometime.”

Sam nodded weakly and hurried out of the house. This was the part of her job she hated the most: lying to her dad. She knew it was necessary (her parents would never have let her gallivant around crumbling buildings, at night, in search of ghosts they didn't believe in), but it still made her uncomfortable. Sometimes she almost wished she hadn't taken the job. On the other hand, her mother was stingy, and Sam’s gaming addiction wasn’t going to pay for itself.

It wasn't just the money, though. As Sam crossed the road, heading towards the company building, the memory wriggled like a maggot-- the feel of the dandelion clocks brushing against her arms, the smell of the barbecue from next-door’s back-garden, and the first ghost, Flora, hanging from the branch, forever choking. She had been trapped there for the last thirty-eight years. If the team didn't send ghosts on, who else would stop their pain?

Spirit-seers were rare. Sam had never met another one, and she had secretly hoped she was the only one in the world, indulging herself with fantasies that there was an important prophecy with herself at the centre, and that one day she would be famous throughout time and space. She _had_ hoped, but the Director had swiftly corrected her. By his and Vanessa's calculations, one in every five hundred thousand people could see ghosts, and it had little to do with important space-time prophecies. The actual explanation was a lot less exciting.

She walked through the automatic doors to the company reception, and dug in her pocket for her ID pass. Officially, she was a intern for 'Human Resources', because that term could mean pretty much anything. Sam showed her pass to the guard, who nodded and buzzed her through. She planned to meet the others in their conference room (which Sam suspected had been a broom cupboard in a previous life), get paid, and get home before her dinner froze to her plate. She swiped her pass again in the lift, and hoped that there wouldn't be any complications.

In theory, their job was simple. To find missions, resident socialite Vanessa would dive into her vast network of contacts and resources and locate someone who wanted rid of a ghost. Emily would then make a deal with the client, devising a quote and arranging a date for the eviction to take place. Toto and Sam inevitably did the work, although the Director oversaw all proceedings and sometimes-- almost always-- took over if things got out of hand. In the (frequent) event that the client was delusional, and there was no ghost, Toto and the Director tended to have a protracted argument about whether or not the team deserved payment. Toto thought it unethical; the Director thought it made perfect business sense. Sometimes, clients tried to sneak out of paying the group after the work was done. Sam could see the temptation. After all, what sort of lawyer could they approach when ghosts were involved? The Church was the only authority which Sam thought might have helped, and the Director had a lifelong ban from the local cathedral, for reasons unknown.

The lift wheezed as Sam arrived at the thirteenth floor. When she entered the conference room, she frowned at the Director's empty chair. At least the others were already sitting around the table.

Toto waved at her; she winced when she caught his eye. In the pale electric light, his cuts and bruises looked much more painful, and a vivid gash cleaved his cheek in two. Sam wondered if there'd be a scar. It was made all the worse because she had to (grudgingly) admit that Toto was... alright-looking, normally. He used his whole face when he talked, animating his words with dramatic expressions, and he had big, blue eyes that looked interesting against his black hair.

Toto had joined the team at the same time as Sam; the Director had introduced him as 'a stranger who has somehow broken into my house' at his dinner party. Sam had later found out that Toto was the Director's son. Minutes after meeting, Sam and Toto had both witnessed Vanessa's possession, which Toto had recorded on his phone. Sam was still unsure of what Toto's official role within the team _actually was_ , but she liked having him around.

Next to Toto sat Emily, looking guilty as she straightened her tie. Not for the first time, Sam found herself marvelling at the difference between Emily's school's uniform and hers. Emily's blazer was red, buttoned up, and so smart it looked as though it had been ironed on. Sam's was black, missing two buttons, and looked as though she had slept in it while being dragged through a hedge forwards, backwards, and in a circle. Eyeing Emily's neat, black ponytail, Sam tried to tidy up her own dyed-purple frizz, but her hair was on bad terms with gravity.

By the door, Vanessa towered in her spiky platform heels, drumming her fingers on her elbows. Green lipstick today. As Sam headed towards the table, Vanessa glanced at her watch, raising her eyebrows fractionally. Considering the amount of surgery Vanessa had had on her face-- she was a fifty-five year old who looked like a forty-five year old pretending to be a thirty-five year old-- Sam reckoned that that must have taken a great deal of effort.

Sam plonked herself down onto the seat next to Toto, wagging her finger.

“You were not in school today, _Tobias_. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

Toto gave an irritated laugh as he picked up the jug on the table and poured himself a glass of water. “My parents were upset when they saw me. Well, that's an understatement; Mum hit the roof. Father said bed rest was mandatory. He actually phrased it like that. Raph was sympathetic-- I said I fell off my bike-- but Lia won’t stop calling me ‘scabface’.”

“Who’s Lia?” said Sam. She took the jug and tried to pour herself a cup, but she knocked her glass over and soaked the table instead. Emily lifted her elbows and moved back.

Toto pulled out a pack of tissues. “Sister. The evil one.” He helped Sam to mop up. “I really wanted to come in; I heard we were starting polynomials...”

Sam was just about to tell Toto that she hoped he got nibbled to death by blunt-toothed rats when the Director marched in. As always, he looked too thin for his height, with blue eyes, a sharp nose, and cheekbones that threatened to tear through his skin if he turned too quickly. He'd tied his blond hair back with a black velvet ribbon, presumably to draw attention to the aforementioned cheekbones; Sam suspected he kept a photo of himself under his pillow. With his pale skin and anachronistic fashion sense, Sam was tempted to believe Lawrence was half-ghost himself.

“I’m dramatically late,” he said. “Sorry. I believe Vanessa told the rest of you about the company emergency yesterday. You would think a state-of-the-art computer system would account for the coming leap year, but apparently we were setting the bar a little high. Vanessa, you'll be happy to hear that nothing of yours was lost, damaged, corrupted or besieged by script kiddies in the catastrophe. Your credit card details remain untouched, and the same goes for your darling Kurt's.”

Vanessa nodded slowly, her lips pursed. “You realise that if you'd taken my offer in the first place, this wouldn't have happened?”

The Director gave a cold laugh.

Vanessa scowled. “What about my password?”

The Director took a breath. “Stolen, but encrypted.” As Vanessa opened her mouth, he hastily added, “You'd be surprised at how many companies store passwords in plaintext, although I agree that you'd be foolish not to change it...”

“Pay me before I rip your head from your shoulders.”

“With pleasure.” The Director peeled a couple of notes from a thick wad, handed them to Vanessa, and then winced as she slammed the door. After a few moments, he let a smile flicker at the corners of his lips. “I will never tire of winding her up. As though Clara would have missed something as obvious as a _leap year_.” He turned to the others. “You will be happy to hear that you'll get your pay-- yes, despite the whale. I reminded them that my family had donated one of the ruined exhibits in the first place. I explained that you were all blameless, and that the ghost had caused all the damage. I gave them a company pen. They paid me to leave. In conclusion, we're all banned for life, so you'll have to quell any sudden archaeological impulses. Anyway, I'm glad that only one of you was mutilated beyond recognition last night.”

“It's not that bad...” muttered Toto, but the Director went on.

“I should have intervened sooner. Next time, we’ll set up a visual link, so that I can keep a closer eye on things.”

Sam groaned. “Don't tell me, we'll get some really expensive camera thing that weighs a ton and we'll have to treat it like it's some, some weirdly shaped eggshell or something-- and I bet I'll end up carrying it. Great.”

The Director raised an eyebrow as he handed her her wage. “If you think that Tobias' safety isn't worth the slight inconvenience...”

Sam glowered, snatched the money, and stood up. “If that's all, I'm going home.” She marched to the door.

“Samantha,” said the Director sternly, and she jerked around to glare at him.

“What?”

“That's not all, so come back here and sit down. I’ve another mission for you three, but first I need to tell you something important.”

Feeling her cheeks flame, Sam sunk back into her seat. As she slumped, Toto tried to give her hand a friendly squeeze, but she yanked her arm away and banged her elbow on the table for her trouble.

“Sorry,” whispered Toto, and that, more than anything, made her want to hit him.

The Director slid into his seat at the head of the table. “Ghosts.” He tapped the tabletop, sending ripples across the water Sam had spilled earlier. “They’re much more dangerous than we thought, and to make matters worse, there is no other authority-- _reliable_ authority; I'm not counting frauds like _'Spectre Splatters’_ and ' _Toastthatghost!'--_ we can approach for information, for warnings, for advice. We're on our own.

“Originally, I wanted to focus on theoretical questions. Why do only some people leave behind ghosts? What are ghosts _made_ of? What are the differences between, say, Sam's occipital lobe, and Tobias'? Now, however, we must consider ghosts as a practical problem. And what really gets these ghosts going? _Our_ _attention_. I won’t let any of you continue without seriously considering the risks.”

This time, Sam didn't yank her hand away when Toto squeezed it.

“Let's be frank; you could die. You can’t appreciate that--”

(Toto frowned)

“-- but your parents would. As a father, I know that I've behaved irresponsibly, _despicably_ , by not stressing that you have your parents' permission for this work. Emily, I know your mother, and while you may be a very good liar, I find it difficult to believe that you have told her anything.” Emily went pink. “Samantha, since you currently resemble a lobster, I assume that the same applies with your parents. Tobias, I was speaking to your mother a few minutes ago, and she says that if you ever get injured like that again, she will forcibly remove a part of my anatomy I'm anxious not to lose.”

Toto fiddled with his collar guiltily. The Director picked up the jug, only to find that, thanks to Sam, there was no water left. Scowling at his empty glass, he discarded it and continued, “I know we need to be economical with certain truths, such as the duration of your employment thus far, and so on. I also know that it may take time to arrange a meeting where we can convince your parents that ghosts exist, and in the meantime, we need to keep our business visible to keep it viable. Nonetheless, the sooner the better, because if I found out that some court jester was employing my children, without my knowledge, to fight violent ghosts, I would make a friendly visit to his home and garotte him.”

The Director paused, surveying the room. Sam felt her stomach twist when he looked her in the eye. “Of course,” the Director continued, “we could just quit here.” Silence fell. “I will understand if you do not wish to continue, and honestly, I recommend it. If just one of you wants to leave, I will disband the group immediately.”

Sam turned to her team mates, but Toto's attention was focused on the Director, an unusually shrewd look on his face.

“I'm guessing you'll carry on on your own, right?” asked Toto.

The Director looked at him for a long moment. “I intend to do what I can, yes.”

Toto stood up. “Well, if you're not running away, neither am I. From what Flora said, we know that ghosts are trapped feeling whatever they felt at the moment of their deaths. Mostly, that's pain. I can't just ignore that-- especially when it could be me one day. If I died and was trapped here as a ghost, I'd want someone to send _me_ on to whatever's next. I don't want to be a hypocrite.” The Director glanced down uneasily; Toto smiled. “Don't worry, I'll look after myself. Promise.”

“That's very easy to _say_ ,” remarked the Director. He turned to Sam and Emily. “Well? What about you two?” His face was inscrutable, but Sam knew he was willing them to leave in the same way that one wills a plague-ridden marmot to leave one's sock drawer-- quickly and without a fuss. Well, he was going to be disappointed.

“Same as Toto,” said Sam, getting to her feet. She said it lightly, to disguise the impact Toto's words had had. “And I'm the only one who can see ghosts, anyway, so I reckon you'd be a bit stuck without me. Plus, the money's good.”

Toto frowned at that; he had always wanted the work to be a charity project, but he'd been outvoted three-to-one by Sam, the Director and Vanessa-- Emily had 'refused to take sides'. On the one hand, he could kind of admire the Director's ability to encounter a ghost by accident and immediately think 'business opportunity!', but on the other hand, it made him feel sick.

The Director also frowned. “Reassuringly superficial. Emily?”

Sam watched in trepidation as Emily wriggled in her seat. “Well...” Emily looked up at Toto and Sam. “I don't like the idea of you two putting yourselves in so much danger...”

Sam tried not to let her irritation show. They'd already chosen, hadn't they?

“... And I know I tend not to be involved in the dangerous things, so that makes me feel like I'm deciding more on your behalf than on mine...”

Toto placed a hand on her shoulder.

“... So I think-- I think it's time I faced more danger!” She stood up abruptly and caught her wrist on the table. Eyes watering, she blinked hard, but remained standing.

The Director looked at them all for a moment, and then stalked out of the room with a sharp, “Excuse me.” Sam thought she heard him mutter something like “children and animals” under his breath.


	3. Quiet

When Sam got home, she found a new email from the Director:

_Samantha and Emily,_

_For your next mission, you will investigate a decommissioned hospital, and empty it of our intangible friends. The site has been associated with various paranormal phenomena, including (but not limited to) shrieks, crashes, breaking windows, flying objects and injuries to passers-by, c/o aforementioned flying objects. This time yesterday, I would have labelled all that as scaremongering, childish nonsense, but now I think we should exercise caution. Two cameras, at least – Samantha, do not email me back with a whiny tirade; I will reply with a virus-- and if there's trouble, you just run, no questions asked. Make sure not to die; I don't want the paperwork. I've attached photographs and floor plans._

 

Sam frowned and typed a reply:

 

_An abandoned_ _**HOSPITAL** _ _? D: That's lyk sumthin from one of those horror films where_ _**EVERYONE DIES** _ _. >_< Can't we do sumthin _ _**ELSE** _ _? Will b flying_ _**SCALPELS** _ _\+ infected_ _**NEEDLES** _ _\+ choking_ _**BANDAGES** _ _and it's basically lyk stickin 'kill me' signs on our backs and then wanderin in2 sumwhere where ppl take signs on other ppl's backs_ _**VERY SERIOUSLY** _ _. :C_

 

The Director's reply was almost instantaneous:

 

_**Psychiatric** _ _hospital. Never type again._

 

_*_

 

Sam, Toto, and Emily arrived at the psychiatric hospital at 9 o'clock on Saturday night. They would have preferred to evict ghosts by daylight, but after experimenting, they'd found that ghosts refused to communicate until nightfall. This was inconvenient, since ghosts couldn't speak. The group had originally used a luminous ouija board, until Sam had had the brainwave (which coincided with her turn to carry the board) that any ghost capable of moving a wineglass was _probably_ capable of moving a pencil. The best alternative to reading ghosts' messages in the dark involved being knocked out and having one's own larynx and lungs possessed by the ghost, so sleep deprivation won out in the end.

Emily tried to be brave, but she did not like the look of the hospital. She did not like the look of its grim, grey bricks or its boarded windows. She did not like the look of the overgrown grass that surrounded the place on all sides, and she especially _dis_ liked the look of the patches of shadow and moss that clung to the walls like a fungal disease. The wind was in an energetic mood, and she was sick of being slapped across the face by pigtail-escapees. To distract herself, she gazed at the pavement, watching the shadowy patterns cast by clouds drifting in the moonlight.

“Freezing, isn't it?” said Toto, drawing up next to her with a smile. He felt the cut on his cheek twinge, and tried to distract himself; he suspected that tonight he would have to smile a _lot,_ no matter how he felt. “You warm enough?”

Emily nodded, looking at the silver BMW, where Sam and the Director were unloading the cameras. The Director was attempting to lecture Sam about taking care of the things, but Emily got the impression he was wasting his time. She made herself turn away before she was too tempted to climb back into the warmth of the car. Looking at the hospital's flying buttresses, she wished she shared her boyfriend's enthusiasm for Gothic buildings; it would have cheered her up tonight.

“You know who would love this place?” started Toto, and Emily laughed.

“I was just thinking that. Well, he'd love it until he found out it was haunted, anyway. After that, well...” She exchanged a conspiratorial smile with Toto as Sam lugged an HD wireless webcam and two tripods over. Emily was pretty sure that Sam oughtn't to be dragging them along like that, and evidently the Director agreed, because he gave her a fierce glare.

“If you break them, you'll pay for them.” He passed a camera to Emily. “Here, take care of this one.”

Emily noticed something written on the box in marker pen:

_“PROPERTY OF S. VALENCE. RESIST URGE TO STEAL. UNCLE LAWRENCE,_ _**THAT MEANS YOU** _ _.”_

“Sam, give Toto the tripods,” Lawrence continued, flipping his hair out of his face. “And stop whinging.”

“Oh yeah, 'cause obviously I'm being _really_ childish getting fed up when you're just going to go driving off now when you could always come with us and help out and, by the way, it must be below zero today, and I can't feel my toes, and these cameras weigh about five hundred tons each, and what if I get frostbite, then what am I supposed to--”

“I'll see you all later, then,” said the Director, and he slipped back to his car. Emily gave Sam a tentative smile as the engine’s purr faded away, but Sam took no notice.

“Right, we're dumping these.” Sam dropped the tripods onto the ground before Toto could take them. “We don't need 'em. We'll check the headsets, and then we're going in.”

“But-- I want to help,” said Toto. More importantly, if his parents found out, they would tear off his homemade Tom Baker scarf and Jayne hat and pitch them into the fireplace. Toto hadn't spent years learning how to knit just to see all his hard work go up in flames.

Sam shrugged. “Tough. I want you to have your hands free so you can look at the floor plans. They're on your phone, right?”

Toto nodded, jigging his leg to keep warm.

Emily took another long look at the building, and this time she noticed something worrying. She hurried towards the entrance, peered as close as she dared, then ran back.

“Um, guys,” she said. “I think we may have a problem.”

Toto and Sam accompanied Emily back to the entrance, and Sam let out a loud groan as she saw the mountain of rocks and splintered planks of wood that blocked the doorway.

“I don't believe it!” She put her headset on. “Director, Director, are you there? The entrance has caved in! Is there another one?”

The silence stretched.

“Sam?” asked Emily, but Sam ignored her.

“Director? Director, can you hear me?”

“Hang on, I'll try mine...” Toto started to put his on, then stopped to get something from his rucksack. “Emmy, here, this is yours.”

She took it from him. The headset was too large; she supposed she'd never worn it for long enough to need to make adjustments. Static whispered in her ears as she turned it on. Was it broken? She started to wonder what they'd do if they had lost contact with the Director, feeling the first cold trembles of fear in her stomach, when the static vanished with a pop.

“I'm here, everyone,” said the Director. “No need to shout.”

“What happened?” they asked.

“Your guess is as good as mine. Interference, I assume.”

“From what?” murmured Toto, but no-one answered, as the Director faded away once more.

They agreed to walk around the perimeter of the building to see if they could find another entrance. Sam wanted the team to split up, to get it done faster, but Toto insisted that they stick together for safety's sake.

“You two walking around an abandoned building at night? On your _own_?”

Sam scowled. “I don't see what difference you'd make. You're shorter than I am.” This was true; Toto was a colossus at 5 ft 4. “If a bunch of bandits show up, you're not exactly going to be able to fight them off.”

“Well then!” said Toto triumphantly. “I refuse to walk around the building on my own!”

And that was that.

They found what they were looking for on the far side of the hospital. About seven feet above the ground, there yawned a hole in the wall, wide enough for a person to fit through if they kept their head low and banged their elbows. Inside, the three could see nothing in the pitch black.

“Cozy,” said Toto.

“Um... so...” said Emily. There was something unwelcoming about the gaping maw of the abyss. “I suppose we go in?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah. You two might have to stretch, but we can do it. Some of these bricks are loose, look.” Sam bent down and wiggled a couple of slabs around, grimacing as damp moss squelched under her fingernails. “If you want, you could pull them out a bit to use like a ladder, though I don't think you'll need to.”

“What if we have to get out in a hurry?” Toto twiddled with his headset. It was hissing again.

Sam wasn't listening. “We can't climb in while holding the cameras, so one or two of us will have to go in first, and then whoever's still on this side can pass them over the wall.”

Emily nodded. “In that case, Sam, you should stay on this side until last, since you're tallest. And, um, if it's all right with you two, I'm really scared, so...”

Sam opened her mouth, but Emily didn't let her cut in.

“... so I'd like to go first, because hopefully, if I know I can be brave, it'll make me a bit braver, maybe. Well, it can't hurt. And I am really, _really_ scared.”

Sam frowned. “Yeah, sure, if you want.”

Toto put his hand on Emily's shoulder, secretly wondering how he was going to convince the others that this was a _terrible_ idea. “Be careful. Also, you're awesome.”

Emily's returning smile was mostly fake, but she did feel a little better. “Thanks. I know I'm probably making a fuss over nothing, but I just have a feeling...”

Toto laughed, seeing his chance. “Hey, last time you had 'a feeling', you avoided being run over by a truck, right?”

“Well...” Emily spent a long time tightening a pigtail and checking her coat buttons.

“And the time before that, there was that pile-up, wasn't there?” If he could convince the others not to climb in, he wouldn't have to follow. If he didn't follow, he, his hat and his scarf would live to resolve conflicts diplomatically another day. He had to be subtle, though, because Sam would hit him over the head with one of the cameras if she found out what he was up to.

“Um...”

“And remember--”

“Toto!” snapped Sam. “You are not helping!”

Emily was very glad for Sam's intervention, but the damage had been done. Her thoughts kept darting to all the other times she'd felt uneasy or frightened for no clear reason, and how quickly a reason had become clear. It was why the Director had asked her to join the group.

_“Raphael has mentioned your 'intuitions'. They interest me.”_

But then maybe she felt anxious because it was a cold, dark night, and the building looked scary, and perhaps it was just confirmation bias. Then again, it was always other people who pointed out the pattern to _her_...

“Okay, Emily, let's go,” said Sam, motioning to the hole in the wall and distracting Emily from her uneasy thoughts. “Once you get in, tell us when you're ready, and we'll chuck-- I mean, gently hand-- you a camera.”

Emily supposed that Sam had changed her wording for the Director's benefit, although she could hear nothing from her own headset but static. She nodded.

“Okay. Wish me luck!”

Toto cheered her on as she reached up to the ledge. He felt like tearing his woollen earflaps off in frustration, but there was no need for the others to know. Negativity wouldn't help. “Go, Emmy!”

Emily scrambled up, bricks scraping against each other underfoot. Hearing Sam telling Toto to shut up, Emily laughed. There was one bad moment when her foot slipped, and she thought she was going to tumble down, but somehow flailing her leg around worked to her advantage, and the climb went smoothly after that. Toto gave another loud cheer when she reached the top; Sam shoved a hand over his mouth. Once Emily sat safely on the bricks, she twisted herself around and started to climb down the other side, into the darkness.

Then she screamed.


	4. Mr. Hobbs

Chapter 4

Mr. Hobbs

 

Sam and Toto raced over to the hole in the wall as they heard a loud thump and shattering sound.

“Emmy! Emmy, are you alright? Emmy!”

After a sickeningly long silence, they heard a mumble from inside.

“'M'okay... but my hand-- guys, something cut my hand! It wasn't there when I started climbing down, and then suddenly it _was_ , and it sliced across, like-- metal, I think-- and my headset smashed when I fell-- and my torch-- Guys, I don't think we should be in here...”

“Hang on a minute,” said Sam, and she started climbing over to Emily.

Toto looked at the cameras for a moment and sighed. “Emmy, we'll be in there in a minute!”

“Guys, are you even listening?” she shouted back, exasperated. “I really don't think it's safe. Look, when we saw the first entrance had caved in, we should have realised what that meant. And what about the headsets? Are yours working? Mine hasn't worked since we were over at the doorway!”

Toto twiddled with his earpiece. He'd been hoping that his was the only one cutting out. “Er, they'll probably come back online in a minute.” He didn’t believe a word. As Sam reached the top of the wall, facing the dark, Toto felt the urge to grab her and stop her, but he knew she was right. They had to help Emily. How was she meant to climb back up otherwise?

Sam disappeared, landing with a soft 'thud!' on the other side. Toto started to climb. With relief, he found that the ascent was easy, and he hoped the same would hold true on the way back. As he reached the top, he wrinkled his nose; the inside stank of damp rot. He pulled himself over the wall and dropped to the ground, surprised to feel the squish of leaves under his feet.

When his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw Sam and Emily kneeling a few feet away. Sam was inspecting something on the back of Emily's hand. From what Toto could tell, they were in a narrow corridor. He flicked his electric torch on and shone the beam along the floor, which was covered in a thin layer of rotting leaves, dust, and other detritus. Some of it wriggled. Shivering, he pointed the torch at the walls, and the pale, slim beam illuminated a mix of peeling paint and black mould. A cabinet slumped a few feet away, its wooden sides warped with age. Something cool and wet plopped onto his head and then slithered down his neck; he jumped and flicked the torch to the ceiling. Right above him, there sagged an ominous patch of plaster. A crack ran through it. As he watched, a drip of water formed in the centre and then fell, splashing his face. It smelled like rancid milk, and he scrubbed at his cheek with the back of his wrist as he hurried over to Sam and Emily.

“It definitely cut my hand as I came down!” Emily was saying to a sceptical Sam. “I didn't hurt it when I fell; I fell _because_ my hand was cut!”

Sam pointed her torch at the hole in the wall. “Look, Emily, there's nothing up there that you could have caught it on.”

“Well, the building is haunted, isn't it?” said Emily, and Toto shivered as he bent to look at her hand. A long, thin cut ran across the back, soaking her fingers in blood.

“We should clean that and put something on it,” he said, rummaging through his rucksack. “Hang on a minute.” He took out a bottle of water, some antiseptic and some gauze, and made Emily a makeshift bandage. “There! Aren't you glad we had to get shots?” He grinned, feeling another stab of pain from his own cut, but Emily wasn't smiling.

“We should go back, right now... Sam, where are you going?”

Sam had got to her feet and was now inching down the corridor.

“Sam?”

“I want to have a look around first. We should at least make an effort.”

Emily glowered. “Does she think I'm _not_ making an effort?” she whispered to Toto. He gave her an apologetic smile.

“I don't think she means anything by it. You know Sam.” He patted Emily's shoulder. “You okay?”

Emily sighed. “Yes, I think so. And I wasn't having a go at her, it's just... this _really_ hurts.” She gave her bandaged hand a limp wiggle, and Toto laughed. “Oh well. Don't tell her I was thinking horrible, violent thoughts just now.”

Toto helped her up. “Sure. Come on, I want to admire more of this interior design.”

Emily sighed, pulled a few slimy leaves off her coat, and the two of them followed Sam.

 

*

 

Sam was very good at hiding her fear when she got the jitters, and she suspected that was why she seemed to have ended up as the unofficial leader of the group. All the same, she felt her toes sweat as she proceeded down the curving corridor, her arms quivering with goosebumps. The sheer darkness of the place unnerved her; a few holes in the walls let in shafts of moonlight here and there, but these grew fewer and farther between, and soon she couldn't see her hand in front of her face without the aid of her torch. Behind her, she could hear Toto's and Emily's feet clumping along the rotting carpet, which was a slight comfort, although the drip from the leaking roof made her queasy. She kept one hand clapped over her nose and mouth in a vain attempt to lessen the overpowering stench of damp.

To help herself along, she invented a poem in her head. It opened with:

_Vanessa set this mission up for us,_

_I hope she gets run over by a bus,_

and continued in a similar vein for several verses, most of which were laden with profanity. The Director also got his own fair share of abuse, although she couldn't say any of it to his face (or ears), because her headset was still playing up. This was probably the most unnerving thing, and she tried to silence a niggling fear that she had put her own pride above the group's safety. She and Toto had made such a big point of continuing with the job that she couldn't bear the thought of turning back without catching even a glimpse of a ghost.

As she reached the corner, she started to turn, but Toto called out.

“Wait! We should check the floor plans first, and work out where we are, so we know how to get back!”

Sam waited for the others to catch up with her (they didn't run; everyone had an unspoken worry about the strength of the floorboards). She marvelled that people had once lived in this building. Once upon a time, someone had been paid to keep this mouldy corridor clean! When she thought about life like that, it made it all seem pointless...

Toto drew up to her. “Are you okay?” He studied her face.

Sam nodded quickly, smiling a little too fast. “I'm fine! Come on, then, let's look at the plans.”

Toto pulled his mobile from his pocket. “That's weird.” He tapped it. “I thought I turned it on...”

Sam felt her heartbeat quicken. “Don't tell me the battery's gone...”

Toto shook his head, pressing the power button. “No, I charged it last night. Although sometimes it does this weird thing where it just resets itself for no reason, and then sometimes it doesn't turn itself back on again, but it's not a big deal.” The screen remained black, and Toto jabbed the power button again. “Come on, you lazy thing...”

The mobile stayed dead.

“Oh, for God's sake!” exclaimed Emily. “Can we _please_ just go?”

They tried taking the battery out and then putting it back in again, to no avail. They blew on the sim, but it looked like Toto's phone was going to need repairs.

Sam tried to stay cheerful. “Well, it's not the end of the world. I'll email the Director now, and we'll get him to send the pictures to Emily, and me, just to be on the safe side.” She pulled her own phone out. “Okay... oh. Oh yeah. No battery. Heh.”

“You didn't charge your phone?” asked Emmy incredulously. “You're leading us in here, and you didn't charge your phone?”

Sam glared.“So what if I _forgot_? It's fine; we'll just use yours.”

“ _How_? I don't have the internet on my phone, Sam!”

Sam stared, flabbergasted. “Seriously? Are you sure it's a phone and not, I don't know, a tin can on a string?”

Emily flinched. “I've had the same phone since year seven,” she said coolly, taking a step back. “I've never had a reason to replace it with a flashier alternative.”

“Well, this is a pretty good reason,” started Sam, but Toto interrupted.

“Why not ask Lawrence if he can send the pictures in a text?”

Unfortunately, psychiatric hospitals had a nasty habit of tucking themselves away in rural areas, away from the clamour and confusion of the city. And that meant...

“No reception?” Sam stared in disbelief. “You've got to be kidding me!”

“So. Let's. Go,” said Emily, through gritted teeth.

“But we haven't even seen a ghost!” said Sam.

“What about my hand?” Emily’s voice rose.

“That's hardly proof!” snapped Sam, feeling her cheeks grow hot. “Stop whining!”

Emily gave a strangled scream and started marching back the way she had come. “I'm going! If you want to go off and die because you're too pigheaded to listen to common sense, fine, but you can go and do it without me, thanks!”

Toto hovered between the pair for a moment, and then turned to Sam. “What should we do?”

“Follow her, and then come back here.” Sam felt her throat grow tight. “Make sure that, that little coward gets out safe.” Her voice cracked. Toto touched her hair.

“It's okay. You're a good leader-- she's just tired, I think. Don't cry.”

Sam scowled. “I'm not crying!” she snapped, feeling her eyes prickle. Toto was kind enough not to shine his torch in her face and prove her wrong.

“If you say so. Don't worry, we'll be back in a sec; I think she just needs a minute. Wait here.”

Sam nodded. “Be careful.” Her voice still wobbled, much to her embarrassment.

When she was sure that Toto had gone, Sam wiped her nose on her hoodie sleeve, hoping it wouldn't leave a conspicuous trail. She tried to calm her breathing by sticking Emily into her poem, but that just made her feel worse, so instead she started counting to herself with a steady rhythm. Although she didn't expect Toto to get back quickly, she couldn't help hoping. The dark pressed in on her from all sides, and if a ghost were as little as a foot away, she wouldn't be able to see it. She pricked her ears, listening for anything that might hint at a spectral presence, but apart from the drip and the distant murmurs of her team-mates' voices, all she could hear was the endless static of her headset.

“Director...” she mumbled, but before she could complete the thought, she saw two torch beams appear in the distance. Her heart gave a jolt; she hadn't expected Emily to come back. She realised she’d misjudged her, and she'd just resolved to apologise, when her stomach plummeted as a recent memory stirred:

_“... and my headset smashed when I fell..._ _**and my torch** _ _... Guys, I don't think we should be in here...”_

There were definitely _two_ torch beams moving toward her.

“...Toto?” she called out quietly, her voice shaking. “Emily? Emmy, is that you? Is it working again?” No reply. “Toto, Emmy?” she called louder, backing away. Still nothing. “Toto! Emmy!” she shouted. The torchbeams moved faster now, and Sam shook like a cornered rabbit as she took another step back, and then another. “Guys, where are you? Where are you?” She thought she heard a muffled sound in the distance, but it came from the opposite direction to the torchbeams, which now changed colour from blue to a sickly green. In the glow, she saw the walls were damaged by smoke-- could the lights burn? Sam tried sniffing; she could only smell mould, but something crackled.

The beams gathered speed again, and Sam stumbled over a discarded bucket before righting herself and moving as fast as she dared. The beams sped up; now she sprinted away. She turned corner after corner, plunging through random doorways, trying to shake the beams off, but they followed as though they already knew her route. Her pounding feet echoed her heartbeat. She tried slamming a door behind her as she dashed through, but the beams just passed through it, while the walls shook like they were laughing.

Putting on another burst of speed as she rounded another corner, Sam cried out as she smacked into a desk. She tumbled to the ground, her torch spinning away. The other torchbeams advanced mercilessly, closer and closer, and she huddled down into a trembling ball, trying not to cry. She wanted to go home. She'd had enough. She was sorry she'd gone this far. The torchbeams were a foot away now. She couldn't make herself any smaller, although she tried nonetheless, wrapping her arms around her legs so tightly that her fingernails dug grooves into her skin. The torchbeams were half a foot away, two inches, a centimetre--

“Sam!” There were shouts in the distance, and the sound of thumping feet. The green torchbeams vanished in an instant. Moments later, Toto and Emily were there on either side of her, crouching down. Toto was scrawling something into a notebook.

“What happened, Sam?” he asked as he scribbled. “We heard you scream-”

“And then you ran off-”

“And then there was this _massive_ crash and we thought you'd fallen through the floorboards or something!” finished Toto. He stopped writing and put a hand on her arm. “And you're shaking like...” He stroked her sleeve. “Hey, hey, calm down, calm down...” Both he and Emily put their arms around her. When Sam was breathing more steadily, Toto patted her head. “There, are you okay? What happened?”

Sam took a few moments to compose herself, then told them what she'd just seen.

“... And the worst bit is, there could be a ghost standing right next to me, and I wouldn't know,” she finished. “It's so _dark_ in here...”

“Do you want to go home, then?” he asked.

Sam paused. She _had_ before, but now that the others were with her, she felt braver. “Er...” she started, feeling her cheeks flame. “Er, first, er, Emmy, I'm sorry about what I said to you before, I, er...” she trailed off.

“Um, yes...” replied Emily, sounding equally embarrassed. “Me too... I really lost my temper, I'm sorry...”

“Er, so...” said Sam.

“Um...” said Emmy.

Sam felt Toto start to shake with ill-concealed laughter, and she elbowed him in the ribs. “Stop it.”

“Sorry, sorry,” chuckled Toto, holding his palms up. “What now? Stay or go?”

Sam opened her mouth to answer him, and a horrible thought occurred. “Er, do we even know how to get back? I sort of took turns at random...”

Toto laughed. “Well, luckily for you, I'm a genius, right, Emmy?”

“He is a bit of a genius,” Emily conceded. “We still don't know where we are, but we _do_ know where we are relative to the exit, because Toto noted every turn we took when we were running after you.”

“Right!” Toto grinned, holding out the notepad for Sam to see. She shone her torch on the page.

“Hmm, it's like a cheat code.” Sam forced a feeble laugh and got to her feet. She placed a hand on the desk behind her for leverage, and a switch flicked beneath her palm.

“... What...?” she started, but a crackling tape-recording interrupted her.

“So this is their latest attempt at therapising me,” it was a little boy's voice. “Dear diary. Today I wanted to go home and they wouldn't let me. The end. Can I go?”

As a man's voice told the boy to try harder, Toto ran his torchbeam around the room. It was small, but there was a larger adjoining room lined with iron bedframes, complete with rotting mattresses, pillows, and sheets. On the floor, there lay a smoke-blackened scrap of grey cloth that might have once been a rug, and a notice above the door read 'Children's Ward' in austere lettering. The bulbs overhead were bare and lightless. Even in its prime, Toto thought the place must have been grim.

“Oh, fine,” said the boy on the recording. “I really don't see the point, though, since you won't listen to me anyway. Right. A few months ago, Flora-- oh, don't look at me like that; I always called her by her name- _my mother_ killed herself, but I can still see her, because I can see notpeople, or ghosts-- oh, it's no use shaking your head. Anyway, they decided to put me in here until I _stopped_ seeing ghosts, but there are ghosts here, too, so it looks like I'm stuck for the foreseeable future. Well, at least until I escape. I'm sure I'll manage it one way or another; I mean--”

The boy was silenced as Sam smacked the 'pause' button. Toto turned to look at her, and was shocked to see tears making trails in the grime on her face.

“... Sam?”

“He called them the same name!” she gasped. “That, that would have been me, he, I would have been here, in here, in somewhere like this, I--”

Toto cut Sam off, putting an arm around her. Emily stroked her hair with her bandaged hand.

“It's okay,” she said. “It's okay, we're here, it's okay.”

Sam just wept. They were trying to be kind, but she knew they didn't understand.

Until Sam was seven, she had thought that everyone could see the 'notpeople'. They looked just like everyone else, but you could walk through them, they always wore the same clothes, and they couldn't speak or move things. Some of them had horrible injuries. Sam wondered how other people could tell which people were 'notpeople' from a distance; nobody else ever tried to dodge around them; they seemed to instinctively know which people they could walk through. One day Sam asked her parents how they did it.

"Mummy, Daddy, how do you know when you can walk through people and when you can't?"

"Erm, what?" said her mum. Sam had tried to explain.

"How can you tell which people are notpeople and which ones are real people?"

"All people are people, dear," replied her dad, with concern. "Has somebody been telling you otherwise?"

Sam had tried to explain, but it was hopeless. Her parents thought it was a strange imaginary game of the kind that makes perfect sense when you're six. The 'notpeople' became a family joke. Sometimes, if Sam fixed her gaze in one place for a long period of time, her mum would smile and ask her if there was a notperson in the room. Sometimes Sam said yes.

As she had got older, she had become quieter about it. Not everyone's teasing was as friendly as her parents'. She still wasn't sure what the notpeople were. 'Ghosts', as anyone could tell you, were white and floaty, like sheets. They glowed in the dark. They were cold to the touch. Notpeople were the same temperature as the surrounding air, they definitely didn't glow, and they were about as 'floaty' as headstones. Privately, Sam thought that there might be something wrong with her brain, but she kept it to herself. She had heard stories from other kids about crazy people, and from what she could gather from cartoons, they got locked up.

Then, when Sam was seven, there came a day when her teacher was not sitting at his desk. Sam saw him standing at the side, with a sheepish expression, while a grim-faced substitute filled his chair. The substitute informed the children that he had something very sad to tell them, and then explained that Mr. Hobbs was a very old man, and sometimes very old men went to sleep and didn't wake up in the morning.

At first, Sam had thought he was joking. When the substitute got angry with her, she realised he was serious, and she thought there might be something wrong with his eyes. She tried to tell him that Mr. Hobbs was right there. Somebody told her to stop being stupid. She hit that somebody. Soon, the room was in chaos, with children wailing and Sam shouting, kicking and pointing desperately as one of the behaviour management staff tried to calm her down. They called her parents in. As the rest of the school attended a special memorial assembly, Sam had to stay in her classroom with her parents and several members of staff. At this point, she was starting to get really scared.

“But he's right there!” she'd marched up to Mr. Hobbs and tried to grab his hand. Her fingers had scythed through it, and she'd stared, eyes round as obols. “Oh...” she'd said, at last. “He's a notperson...”

Her mother had given her a smack and called her a Very Naughty Girl. Sam hadn't spoken to her for two days, and from then on, notpeople were a taboo in the family. Confused and upset, Sam had eventually caved to the pressure and agreed with her parents that she had been carried away by her own imagination. Her dad had given her a kind, but misguided, lecture about how her imaginary games could hurt other people (somehow, she had managed not to cry or scream at him, but had just nodded instead, feeling her throat growing tighter and tighter as he added point after patronising point), and none of her teachers or family had ever alluded to the matter again.

With her classmates, however, it was another story, and although she hadn't been ostracised entirely, she had been treated with the same distant caution that they afforded Mary Smith, with her crawling infestation of headlice, and Mick Tamwell, who liked to pick his nose and eat it with loud slurps. Sometimes she heard whispers of 'crazy' when they thought she couldn't hear them, and sometimes a colony of ladybirds would turn up in her lunchbox, or a layer of wet PVA glue would coat her plastic tray. But gradually, everyone's memories faded, and Sam cut, bleached and dyed her hair purple for the first time to coincide with her start at secondary school. She wanted nothing to link her to the girl who'd shouted that her dead teacher was wearing a green woollen jacket at the front of the class.

When Sam finished crying, Toto and Emily helped her to her feet. She was still shaking, and her breath was irregular, but at least she could stand. Emmy gave her a tissue. Sam took it with a sniffly nod. She resolved to find the boy, to get in touch so that he knew that someone out there had discovered the injustice he’d suffered-- so he knew he wasn’t alone.

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go.”

Toto picked up his pad of paper to check the directions, but at that moment, something in the darkness grabbed the pad and dashed it to the floor.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Moonlight

The group tensed. Sam shone her torch around; she'd caught a glimpse of an arm smacking the notepad away from Toto, but it had swiftly vanished into the shadows. Slowly, Toto bent and picked the pad up. He groaned when he saw the page.

“It fell on a damp patch, guys. The directions are too blurry; I can't--” He stopped as Emily let out a thin scream.

“It's on my back! Get it off! Guys, there's something on my back!”

Sam turned her torch to shine at the space above Emmy's right shoulder, but the ghost knocked the torch from her hand before she could make out more than a vague outline tearing off Emmy's coat. The torch rolled across the floor, and Sam had no choice but to stumble after it.

Toto grabbed Emily's hand. “It's okay, Emmy, I'm right here!” He started to lift his torch, and then thought better of it; it seemed like the ghost wasn't too keen on light.

“It is _not_ okay!” Emily made a whimpering noise, hunching over. “I... Toto, I think it's _writing_ on me!”

Toto checked his pocket. Sure enough, his pen was missing.

“Well, that's not too bad,” he said.

“Oh, would you like it to write on _you_?” Emily fumed. “Urgh, this is so weird...” She shivered, then slowly straightened up. “Oh... I think it's stopped.”

Sam's torchbeam swung back to Emmy. Toto saw his pen hover for a long moment and then drop to the ground. He waited for a few seconds, then picked it up (along with Emmy’s coat) and shone his torch on Emmy's back.

The ghost had scrawled all over her neck and the fabric of her long-sleeved blouse. Most of it was illegible; the lines of text criss-crossed, rising and falling, and every word looked like a signature. The ink faded the further down he read, then disappeared completely just above Emmy's lower back. Toto could make out the word ‘ESCAPE' and 'black clouds burn' and 'sleep sleep sleep SLEEP SLEEP', but that was all he could decipher.

He took a deep breath, trying not to let his voice shake. “W-we can help you sleep...” His pen and notepad were tugged from his hands once more. The ghost wrote something short, then dropped the implements again.

“What does it say?” Sam walked over. Toto held up the pad to her torchlight so that she could read it:

“GET OUT.”

“Well, that's nice,” muttered Sam. Nonetheless, the group took heed, and scurried back the way (they thought) they had come.

As he retraced his footsteps, Toto tried to keep smiling, although it was a struggle. Lawrence had only let him join the group when he'd realised that Toto might be good at calming ghosts down ( _“Emily, Sam and myself-- especially Sam and myself-- we're not the most sensitive people. Perhaps there's a use for you after all.”)._ He was also supposed to stop Sam and Emily from fighting _._ Well, so much for either of those.In his pocket, he clenched his hand into a fist. He hated feeling so useless.

Emily stepped as lightly as she could. She was terrified that at any moment, her foot would sink right through the floor, and she’d tumble down-- was there a basement below? She shuddered, imagining a cold, concrete pit. She could break her neck, easily. Lawrence might take hours, days... he might _never_ find them... how would her mother cope? Emily suppressed a whimper. She told herself that this was all part of being brave, but it rang hollow-- she didn’t see much virtue in bravery if it only served to hurt her mother. She clenched her teeth, hard, and started counting to ten, over and over again, in the way she used to as a little girl when her mother worked late and she saw monsters in every shadow in the flat.

After walking for what felt like hours, Sam was convinced that the turn-before-last had been a wrong one, and that they ought to head back. She was steadily getting huffier and huffier, so Toto tried to distract her.

“Sam, the ghost back there, I meant to ask-- what did it look like?”

Sam kicked the spongy skirting board. “How should I know?” she grumbled. “It's dark.”

Toto was curious. “Can't you see them in the dark?”

Sam snorted. “They don't _glow_ , Toto! What, were you picturing luminous green blobs?”

“That's not fair, Sam.” Emily yanked her coat tighter. “How is Toto supposed to know what a ghost looks like to you? You shouldn't make fun of him.”

“I'll do what I want, thanks,” said Sam coolly. “I think he can take it.”

Toto fiddled with his collar. “Er, um, yeah, er, it's fine, I don't mind.” Not _strictly_ true, but he didn't see how acting aggrieved would improve the situation. And it was true: he _could_ take it, and he clearly wasn't just making excuses for her for the same reason that he felt thrilled whenever she sent him a text.

They trudged along in silence for a few more minutes until they reached a fork.

“Left or right?” asked Toto, inwardly panicking because he didn't recognise it.

“Doesn't matter,” grumbled Sam. “We went the wrong way ages ago.”

“I don't remember this...” said Emily. “Though maybe it's just the angle we're seeing it from?”

“Left it is,” said Toto, hoping she was right.

The left path soon opened out into a dead end-- a circular room with a bare floor and high, arched windows. Something brushed Sam's shoulder; she shone her torch up, revealing that the ceiling was covered in hooks, from which hung hundreds of strings of flowers. She sniffed and touched the yellow roses that had brushed her shoulder-- they were dewy and sweet. Fresh.

“Nope,” said Sam, stepping away. “Nope, nope, nope.”

They doubled back fast.

The path on the right ended in an unfamiliar staircase. Some of the rickety steps had already splintered to pieces.

“I told you we'd gone too far!” exclaimed Sam. “Right, we're going back, no arguing!”

The others didn’t move. “Sam, look.” Emily pointed. “Up at the top. There's moonlight, and that means a way out. I don't mind some more climbing; I just want to get out.”

Sam scowled at the pale glow. “Except we don't actually _know_ if that leads out. What if that light's coming through a barred window or something?”

“Then there'd be a barred shadow. Besides, I'd rather not go back. What if we run into that ghost again? _I_ couldn't see it, and it _wrote_ on me, Sam!”

Sam sighed the sort of sigh that seemed to have travelled o'er hills and valleys, crossed several oceans, and fought in six wars. “ _Fine_. Toto. What do you think?”

Tobias flicked his torch from Sam to Emily. Privately, he thought Sam made more sense. She looked fed-up, but otherwise okay. Emily was trembling, her skin much paler than usual and her brown eyes wide. She looked like she could collapse at any moment, so with an apologetic smile at Sam, he said, “Upstairs sounds like a good idea.” It had the desired effect; Emmy looked relieved and slightly perkier. Sam, however, made a noise that sounded a lot like a growl.

“Fantastic. Right. Well. You guys can go first.”

Toto didn't argue. As he ascended, he could hear Sam a few steps below, dragging her feet and complaining as loudly as she dared. He couldn't help but smile. He turned his head slightly, to see if he could catch a glimpse of her furious face, but it was too dark. With a sigh, he turned back again, then stopped suddenly. Emily smacked into his back.

“Huh?” she asked. Behind them, Sam also stopped.

“The light,” said Toto, feeling dread knot like brambles in the pit of his stomach. “It's moving.”

The patch of light was indeed gliding toward them, and as it did so, it changed to a flickering green.

“Dammit, it's that thing again!” yelled Sam, and the three of them started down the stairs; Toto hadn't gone two steps when there was a sickening crack from below. Sam screamed a very un-Sam-like scream as one of the steps buckled under her feet, and she tumbled to the ground. Toto's heart skipped a beat for the second time that night.

“Sam! Sam!” He raced to her, tripping and almost falling down the last few steps. “Sam, are you okay?”

Sam lay spread eagled on the floor. “I think so.” She tried to pull herself up; the rotting smell was ten thousand times worse at ground level. Dirt choked her hair. “Although- ouch!- I think I twisted my ankle...”

Toto helped her up. “Can you walk?” he asked. Behind him, Emily reached the bottom of the stairs, having taken the time to descend sensibly.

Sam tried to take a few steps, and found she could limp. “Come on, let's go,” she said, gesturing at the patch of light, which had already reached the top of the staircase. Toto pulled her right arm around his shoulder, and Emmy did the same with Sam's left. Sam took a sharp breath at that moment, but Toto was glad that she kept her thoughts to herself. Poor Emily was nearly in tears from guilt anyway.

They hobbled out of the room. Sam gave directions back to the turn which she thought they'd messed up before. As they crept down the corridor, Toto listened to Sam's breathing, and suggested rests accordingly, since Sam was too stubborn to say anything when her ankle hurt too much. He tried to make whispered conversation at first, to calm himself, but Emily was subdued, and soon Sam snapped at him, hissing that it would be his fault if a ghost caught up with them and killed them all. So he lapsed into silence. He tried to ignore his stinging cheek, and the nauseating smell of rot that clogged his lungs, and the shaky cold that spread through every inch of his body. After all, he'd be no good to anybody as a quivering wreck. His parents were brave. His sisters were brave. His brother was _incredibly_ brave. He could be brave.

“Sam?” he said at last. His voice felt dry from lack of use.

“What is it _now_?” she said.

“I think we're here.” He pointed. Sure enough, the exit hole waited a few paces ahead. But how were they going to get Sam out? They took a few steps towards the exit, then stopped as they heard something at the end of the corridor. The tape recording was playing again. They backed away, and at that moment, the patch of light appeared at the other end of the hallway. The cassette player grew louder, and they heard a rattling, scraping, rumbling sound.

“I... I think the desk is moving this way,” whispered Emily, as dried flowers blew past. “We need to get out... we need to get out now...”

Sam didn't hear her. The exit hole had grabbed her attention.

Poking over the ledge, silhouetted against the moonlight, stretched a thin, pale hand.

Sam screwed her eyes shut and gripped Toto so hard she thought her knuckles were going to rip through her skin. She could feel his heart slamming against his ribs, betraying the fear that hadn't shown on his face.

A scratching sound came from the exit hole. Sam was surprised that Emily hadn't screamed yet, but then it had to be less scary if you couldn't see the thing. She shook, picturing that grotesque hand, with its spidery, skeletal, bone-white fingers, clawing at the air.

She heard a very loud thump, and then a voice.

“Hello, everyone,” said a calm, familiar tenor. “Tobias, Samantha, calm down. I'm not-”

“Lawrence!” yelled Toto, and he wriggled out of Sam's grip to fling his arms around the Director. The pale light at the end of the corridor vanished, though the ghostly recording continued. “Oh, God, I was so scared, I was so scared...”

The Director sighed, patting Toto on the head. “Yes, yes, I'm relieved to see you, too, though there's no need to call me your god. And I should tell you now, I am _furious_ with you all. Come on, let's get out of here.” He paused, looking around as he noticed the recording for the first time. “What's that?”

Sam filled him in. As she finished, he disengaged himself from Toto and started down the corridor.

“Where are you--”

“Wait here,” he called. “I'll be back in a minute.”

“Lawrence!” shouted Toto, but his father had already vanished. He turned to the others, voice quivering. “Do you think he'll be alright?”

“'Course!” said Sam, trying to ignore her misgivings. “He's probably memorised the floor plans by now.”

“What if that ghost or that light comes back? What if he falls through the floorboards? What if he gets lost?”

“Toto, I think you should worry more about us.” Emily's voice was sharp. “I can't believe it: after everything tonight, he _finally_ arrives and he just _leaves_ us here, while--” She stopped as she noticed that Toto was huddled over. “Oh, Toto, calm down. He'll be fine.”

“He once broke his leg painting the skirting board,” Toto replied darkly.

After several minutes, a shape emerged from the darkness. The shape tripped over a floorboard, cursed, righted itself and returned to the group. Sam saw Lawrence held a cassette.

“I'm going to investigate this,” he explained, shadows pooling in the hollows of his cheeks. “Come on, then, let's get out of here.”

“Sam's hurt, Lawrence, her ankle...”

“The grass is long on the other side,” said the Director. “Hmm, proverbial. Well, anyway, as long as she can get up, she's fine. Here.” He lifted Sam up, and she wondered how his slender arms could take the weight as he sat her down on the ledge. “Tumble at will, Samantha. You see, Tobias, the wonderful things tall people can do?”

Toto laughed, slightly hysterically. Within a few minutes, they'd escaped the building. Now that they were outside, they felt much braver. Emily marvelled at how little the exterior unnerved her, now that she had spent so much time acquainted with the _interior._

“How did you know where we were?” asked Sam. The Director gestured at the two cameras lying in the grass, his fingers casting smoky shadows in the moonlight.

“I divined it in a bowl of tea leaves,” he said. “And because I am a genius, I will predict your next question. I knew you were all in dire straits because you'd crawled into a patently unsafe building and your headsets weren't working. I admit that I spent far too much time trying to get in through the other entrance; I thought it’d collapsed _behind_ you.” He held out his palms for them to inspect; the skin was scratched raw from his attempts to shift the rubble.

Sam frowned. “But we told you it had caved in!”

“No,” said Toto, shaking his head. “Well, yes, we tried to tell him, but he couldn't hear us, could he?”

The Director nodded. “That sounds likely. I heard you all say 'Director!' a few times, and then that was it. I'm going to take these headsets to Seth tomorrow and demand an explanation. Annoying, though; I just got this dry-cleaned.” He sighed and twisted round; Sam saw that the literary ghost had struck for a second time. “What did she write?”

“Er...” Sam tried to read the scrawl on the back of the suit jacket. “Something about... being alone... and 'Mr. Burkhardt wants to meet the painting lady'-- I'm guessing that's something from back when the ghost was alive-- and, er, 'you're tall'. Hmm. Observant ghost.”

The Director laughed, and they headed back to the car. Glancing back, Sam thought she saw something yellow fluttering out of the gap in the asylum wall, and her heart jolted, picturing more yellow roses, but then she realised that it was actually the Director's hair in her peripheral vision. Shortly after they started the drive back to their quarters, Sam felt her eyelids droop. The steady flash of street-lamps outside the windows was soothing, and everyone felt too tired to talk. She tried to plan out how to find the boy from the tape, but it was cozier not to think too hard. She felt her head slump onto Toto's shoulder, but moving it away again seemed like a monumental task.

“Sam...” she heard, and it sounded like it was echoing across a great distance. “... You have a big, heavy head...”

And then she heard quiet tears, and she knew that a ghost was weeping close by, but Sam wasn't paying attention because it was much more important that she made it a beautiful scarf for the baking competition tomorrow, but she couldn't bake, and she was wondering if she'd be baking with Toto or if he'd want to bake with Emily, because Emily was always saying that Raph was a rubbish cook, but it wouldn't matter because the floor would be made of ice anyway, and none of them could ice-skate, so they'd be disqualified unless they hid behind yetis all the way through, but first they had to find yetis, and everyone knew that yetis were extinct.

“Sam...” mumbled Toto, “... You snore really loudly...”


	6. Seth

 

Chapter 6

Seth

 

Seth. God of the desert, of thunder, of chaos. Seth, slayer of Osiris. Seth, overworked Physics teacher with an Ofsted inspection on Monday, a raging headache, and no matching pairs of socks.

When Seth's doorbell rang at 11am on Sunday, he responded by groaning and burrowing further under the covers. Unfortunately, the doorbell didn't take the hint, so he forced himself to roll out of bed with a 'flump', and crawl over to his tatty, chequered dressing gown. As he struggled to work out what went through which hole, he cursed his visitor. Every fresh peal of the doorbell slammed into his head just like Sir Killalot had slammed Matilda, Matriarch of Mayhem, toward the flame pit when Seth was fourteen. House Robot turning on House Robot-- for some reason, it had stayed with him.

“I'm coming, I'm coming,” he muttered, his voice thick and nasal. He was glad that his nose was no longer streaming, but the downside was that he now couldn't breathe.

Out in the hallway, Seth flicked the 'vampire' option on his modded light switches. A dim, headache-friendly glow lit the house. He stumbled down the first few stairs, tumbled down the last few, then fumbled with the keypad that opened his front door. There was a quiet hiss as the seal released and the door slid open.

“Hello,” started his visitor, but he didn't get any further than that, as Seth slammed the door in his face.

“Go away,” he growled through the letterbox, and he headed over to the kitchen. When he entered, he was relieved to see Coffeebot doing the dishes he himself had been too ill to finish yesterday.

“I love you, Coffeebot.”

“WOULD YOU CARE FOR SOME COFFEE, OVERLORD?” asked Coffeebot. Seth nodded, and then cursed as tiny fireworks exploded in his head.

“Yeah, thanks.”

Coffeebot wheeled over to the sink, and Seth sat down at the table, where his laptop waited (he'd left it downstairs to make sure he got up). Flipping it open, he checked his emails and groaned; there were five hundred and six in his inbox. Most were vitally important marketing exercises, along with a few patch rejections; the Icedove icon seemed to be laughing at him. The last fifty emails were all from the same address. Accidentally opening every message in the thread, he saw that at least he'd guessed the contents:

_“Open the door, Seth.”_

He closed tab after tab, and found that the first message had been sent four hours ago. The landline started ringing. Seth frowned, suspicious, and went to the hallway to pick it up. Sure enough:

“Hello, Seth, could you open the--”

Seth slammed the receiver down and then took it off the hook. His mobile immediately started to ring; Seth flicked it to silent mode and left it on the hall table, to join the various miniature robots upon which he'd lavished his love, built from scrap over the years. The doorbell rang again, so Seth deactivated it by pressing a button on a remote control he kept on that same table. His unwelcome guest responded by hammering on the door with the knocker; Seth stuffed his fingers in his ears, making a mental note to get the knocker removed, unless he could mod it into something that could shoot jets of acid.

Then the knocking stopped abruptly, and instead a dark liquid dripped through the letterbox and onto the tiled floor. Seth recognised the smell of petrol. An unlit match followed.

“I'll light the next one,” said the voice outside. “Open the door.”

“We both know you're not really going to,” said Seth, though he wasn't actually sure.

In reply, the letterbox opened again, and a burning match dropped through.

Seth swore and leapt back, as the flames spread. “Coffeebot, fire extinguisher, now!”

Coffeebot rushed past, klaxons blaring, and doused the floor in two feet of foam.

“For your own safety, I recommend that you let me in,” said the voice outside, as Coffeebot wheeled away, crisis averted.

Seth punched the keypad and shoved the door open before it could finish opening on its own; he didn't want his alarm to ring. “That was fire! That was actual fire, fire that sets fire to things!”

Lawrence nodded and stepped inside, nimbly avoiding the foam. “It worked.” He started to cough on the smoke, pulling his inhaler out of his pocket.

“That's so irresponsible!” Seth slammed the door shut again, foam seeping through his slippers.

“I'm an irresponsible man.” Lawrence successfully convinced his lungs to let him breathe again, and returned the inhaler to his pocket. He stopped gazing around the hallway to peer at Seth. “Also, you look terrible.”

“Thanks,” said Seth.

Coffeebot appeared in the kitchen doorframe. “YOUR COFFEE IS READY, OVERLORD.”

“Thanks,” said Seth again.

Lawrence studied the spindly robot with curiosity, watching it scoot back into the kitchen. As he followed it, a high-pitched squeal from above made him jerk his head up to stare at a miniature rocket, whirling in loops overhead, smoke puffing from its base. Seth didn't even give it a glance, and the same applied to the selection of tiny robots on the hall table, some of which were bobbing up and down, or charging around in jerky figures of eight. In the corner, a cybernetically enhanced pot plant bleeped and watered itself at intervals. Glowing panels and visible circuits were spaced out along the walls; Seth had modded his whole house so that the lighting, air conditioning and thermostat were all controllable via his laptop.

Lawrence sighed. “Forever Alone, Seth. Forever Alone.”

Seth said nothing. He suddenly seemed fascinated by his coffee.

In the kitchen, Lawrence took a cup from the cupboard and inspected the inside. He frowned. He rinsed it under the tap.

“You know, we do have a robot,” said Seth, as Lawrence put the coffee maker on.

“I don't place too much trust in your technology just at the moment,” Lawrence dropped two-and-a-quarter grey headsets onto the breakfast table. “Explain.”

“Uncle, I've literally just woken up, and my head is killing me. Later.”

Coffeebot wheeled over to the sink, rinsed a towel, and then wheeled back over to Seth and smacked it hard against his forehead.

“Thanks,” Seth muttered. “Voice command,” he added, at an inquisitive look from Lawrence.

“Your head hurts often?” asked Lawrence.

“Not _that_ often.” Seth recognised the insinuation.

“But often enough for you to give your pet robot a voice command to slap a wet towel on your head when you have a headache.” Lawrence sounded cheerful. For the second time that morning, Seth pretended to find his coffee hypnotic.

Lawrence got Seth a hot water bottle, for which Seth was grateful; filling hot water bottles was beyond Coffeebot's capabilities; it always punctured them by mistake, then howled when its heat sensors kicked in. Seth sipped his coffee. They exchanged small talk about work and family (Seth was one of two living people who could get Lawrence to make small talk), and Seth was happy to hear that Toto's white blood cells were still behaving themselves.

“I think we're always more worried than he is,” said Lawrence with a sad smile. “But yes, it's a relief. He's had a rotten lot. Anyway.” Lawrence tapped the headsets on the table. “Are you ready to look at these yet?”

Seth sighed. “Oh, go on then. What's up?”

Lawrence filled Seth in on the most recent mission as Seth turned a headset over, studying the casing.

“... So they reach the entrance,” said Lawrence, as Seth tapped the plastic with a fingernail, “And they see that it has caved in. Now, at this point, what goes through a rational mind?”

Seth pulled a miniature screwdriver from his dressing gown pocket. “Building's unsafe, right?” He started unscrewing the casing.

“Exactly. But no, remember whom we're talking about. I don't understand it; Emily goes to one of the best schools in the country, and Toto's IQ is higher than his height in centimetres, but when it comes to good old fashioned common sense...” Lawrence sighed. “So, instead of entertaining the possibility that they perhaps should _not_ wander into a collapsing building, they decide to find another entrance.”

Seth laughed as he pulled the casing off the headset, exposing the inner workings. “At least they got out safe. I suppose you told them off?” He peered at the wires.

“There were some tears this morning, yes. Tobias is the master of unintentional emotional blackmail.” Lawrence sighed again. “I can see the humour in it. Just last week, I gave them a great lecture about the dangers they faced, and the importance of behaving maturely from now. I'm starting to think that I lack basic rhetorical skill.”

“Mmhmm...” said Seth; he wasn't really listening. Something had caught his eye.

“What is it?” asked Lawrence.

“Here, look at the wires.” Seth pointed, and Lawrence peered over his shoulder. “You see those two? They're supposed to be glued down, so that they don't get kinks like that, and look, there, the insulation, yeah, there, that's all been worn away, but there shouldn't be enough friction to do that.”

“Did you forget to glue them?” Lawrence straightened up. Seth started to shake his head, but caught himself, stopping before his headache could rise with a vengeance.

“No, I remember getting my finger stuck to the table. I remember it well.” He paused. “So that's weird, because I promise I didn't use gluestick. And there wouldn't be enough heat generated in these things,” he gestured to the headsets, “to melt the solvent, or anything like that. There is literally no way something like this could have happened due to normal wear and tear.”

“Unscrew the others.”

They found they were all the same.

Lawrence sucked in a breath through his teeth. “Sabotage, do you think?”

“Maybe,” said Seth. “But then who? And why? And how? _Mum_ made your security system; it's foolproof, and _you_ don't have an irritating uncle breaking in--”

“That was one time, and justified.”

“-- and setting fire to things and stealing anything that isn't nailed down-- that reminds me, have you seen my cameras?”

“Your cameras?”

“I am very, _very_ suspicious.” Seth jabbed Lawrence with the screwdriver. “Anyway. The question is, how would someone break in to your house to damage the headsets?”

Lawrence ran a hand through his shoulder-length hair. “I'll have to do a few checks before we have an answer to the 'who' and the 'why', although I already have my suspicions. But I confess that the other question is rather less mysterious. I've been storing the headsets in the garden shed.”

There was a silence.

“Do you know how long it took me to make these?” said Seth at last, in a strangled sort of voice.

“I promise to pay you this time.”

“I had an assessment day then, too, remember? And you came bursting in, demanding that I build you a machine you could use to talk to ghosts, and-- and-- and you didn't even use it!”

“It lived in a three-bedroom semi in the uncanny valley, Seth--”

“And then when I didn't believe you-- because _ghosts_ , for God's sake-- you blackmailed me with those photos--”

“Danielle had a life, friends, _Facebook_ ; your romance was doomed from the start-”

“How could you _know_ that?” Seth cried.

Lawrence was kind enough not to say anything more on the subject as Coffeebot scrubbed at Seth's face with a piece of kitchen roll.

“I'll leave these with you, then.” Lawrence gestured to the headsets. “Try to get them fixed by the end of the week. Oh, and you ought to get some sleep.”

A rush of expletives erupted from Seth in a hoarse roar. Lawrence couldn't help but laugh.

“Oh, I know, I'm a hypocrite. All right; since I cannot, with any integrity, advise you to rest, why don't you show me your latest projects? Especially things that could be useful...”

Seth was torn, but in the end, his desire to bore his uncle rigid with his achievements outweighed his desire to tunnel back under his blankets. Besides, the thought of climbing the stairs again made him shiver.

“Okay,” he said. “Follow me.”

They headed back out into the hallway, and Seth pointed at the plant which Lawrence had noticed earlier.

"See that? Self-sufficient botany! It waters itself, feeds itself-- well, actually, I feed it at the moment, because the pot would smash if it fell off the table, but there are retractable wheels in the base, and it's equipped with a timer and the tech to home in on the kitchen cupboard, although of course I've had to disable that; I'd store it somewhere other than the table, but last time I let it roam free, Coffeebot mistook it for an intruder, so this is actually Mk. II, because it wasn't designed to withstand Coffeebot's flamethrower-- neither was my carpet, actually; that's why the floor's tiled now, luckily for _some_ people... er..." Seth noticed that Lawrence was shaking his head in despair. "Moving on, look at this." Seth leaned over to the far corner of the table and picked up a small beetle-shaped device that Lawrence hadn't noticed before. When Seth flicked its feelers, it blew out a stream of tiny bubbles.

"This," said Seth, "Was originally going to be a toy for Lily-- about ten years ago, of course. Found it recently. Mum thought it was cute, but Dad wouldn't let sis go anywhere near it, because the bubble solution turned out to be a bit, well, poisonous. So I tried to fix it, but do you _know_ how difficult it is to make a decent bubble solution? In the end I gave up, but I kept this one because, well, _look_ at it!" Seth flicked the feelers again, and momentarily disappeared behind a cloud of bubbles. "Just don't put it in your mouth."

They watched the bubbles rise and pop against the base of the circling rocket. “As for that?" Seth grinned. "That's a microrocket! Sort of like a guided missile, except it's not really anything like a guided missile, and it can't do any damage-- well, I guess it might scorch a brick, but that's about it-- and I got it to fly in circles like that by telling it to divide by zero.”

“A simple Stanislavskian technique,” mused Lawrence, nodding. “In order to fully _understand_ zero and its characteristics, and thus discover the result of dividing _by_ it, the rocket must _become_ zero, hence the circle.”

“Yes, I think that's how it works,” Seth deadpanned. “But that's just the prototype; there's a bigger, better version in the lab.”

“You have a lab now?” asked Lawrence.

“Well, attic. I call it the lab. Sounds more... scientific, you know? But yeah, anyway, the one in the attic can pick objects up-- only small objects, no bigger than about three kilos-- and carry them to any destination on Earth. Of course, really, it's limited to the immediate area, because to travel farther it would have to climb higher and occupy airspace that... could cause a few wars... but it has the _potential_! Except, well, I think that that potential will have to be kept secret from most people because part of that potential would be the exploding-weapon-y kind of potential, and we all remember what happened last time I got involved with the MOD, but, I mean, if you want a small AI sort-of-rocket that can carry smaller packages across a few streets, maybe even a town-- or two-- although it's still quite slow, because I've equipped it with invisishields... that's a working title; they, er, don't actually make it invisible, but make it... chameleon-like, so I can take it for walks-- Saturdays, if you're interested-- and it's less likely to get shot out of the air, although it can still technically happen, I guess, and at the moment 'chameleon-like' means 'blue on a sunny day, blue-grey on any other day, and that's your lot', and it means it goes slower, so regular post is generally a better option... _but it's cool_!” Seth finished in a rush.

Lawrence narrowed his eyes. “... In that case, what could the micro-rocket actually be _used_ for?”

Seth scowled and said nothing. Lawrence patted him on the shoulder.

“Well, congratulations, Seth. You've officially created the first rocket perfectly suited to drug-dealing.”

Seth went to get himself a sandwich, sulkily resolving not to show Lawrence any more of his projects. They just wouldn't be appreciated.

Lawrence and Seth sat down in the sitting room while Coffeebot crashed around in the kitchen. Lawrence gazed at the photographs propped up along the mantelpiece, guarded by Tachikoma figurines. His cousin, Seth's father, leaned against a tree, his cocky grin frozen in time. Lawrence eyed the photo coolly, feeling grim satisfaction at having outlived the man. There was another, more recent, photograph of Seth's sisters; Lawrence felt a fresh wave of anger as he saw Lily's wan smile. He was surprised to see that there were no photos of Seth's mother, Clara.

“I keep mum upstairs,” said Seth, reading Lawrence's mind. “In the lab.”

There was a pause, and then both men burst out laughing. They'd always shared their sense of humour.

“Seriously, though,” said Seth, at last. “I find it motivational.”

Lawrence nodded, although he found it almost funny that that Seth should need a picture of his mother. Seth had the same auburn hair, and his eyes were exactly the same orchid-leaf green; he had Clara's ears, Clara's bitten fingernails, Clara's curious expression when he was absorbed in some complex problem... But then that sort of thing was always more obvious to an observer than to the person concerned. “Yes...” said Lawrence. “I've never been one for photos, myself, but maybe that's because the majority of people use them to wallow in the past. It's good to use a photograph to spur yourself on.”

Seth nodded distractedly. “Speaking of which,” he said, finishing his sandwich, “as I think I've said, I have an Ofsted infection tomorrow, so although you're welcome to stay if you lock yourself in another room and don't talk to me until I've finished three incredibly jazzy and atypical lesson-plans...”

Lawrence got to his feet. “I'll see you next week, then. Don't forget the headsets.”

“I won't,” said Seth. “Take care.”

“And you. Give my regards to Pan and Lily.” Lawrence headed for the door, and then hesitated. “Actually, no, send them my love. Life's too short. That reminds me, would you like to fix my laptop?” Lawrence opened his bag.

“Oh, I knew it!”

Lawrence pulled the laptop out. “I think it has a virus.”

“Yes, it's called Windows. Install Oneiric Ocelot like I told you, and leave me alone.”

“No.”

“Then you are unreasonable and this conversation is over.”

“ _Seth_.”

Seth sighed. “I swear, the things I do for you...”

“Excellent, I'll leave this with you.” Lawerence handed Seth the laptop. “There. Now you have two tasks to distract you. I thought you might like a birthday present.”

Seth sighed, unable to tell whether or not his uncle was joking. He didn't want to admit it, but he was already curious about what horrors the laptop held in store, and it _would_ be a distraction. He put it in the drawer with his already-completed lesson plans, as his uncle left him to grieve for his parents in peace.


	7. A Tricky Situation

 

 

Chapter 7

A Tricky Situation

 

Sam's eyes burned.

After the hospital mission, the Director had driven them all back to quarters, a dorm-like room in the main company building, where they'd spent the night in stony bunk-beds. Sam had awoken early in the morning with a crick in her neck and a metallic taste in her mouth. Her ankle throbbed. No sooner had she lifted her head off the pillow than the Director had stormed in, cold eyes blazing, and scolded them all with such contempt that she'd felt tears well up. Emmy had started crying properly, and by the time the Director had finished, even Toto looked wretched, huddled over and hugging his knees.

The team had officially disbanded until everyone had their parents' consent, and Sam had crept home. Feeling a desperate, stabbing sympathy, she had spent her Sunday searching the internet for combinations of “boy”, “ghosts”, and “institutionalised”, along with the hospital's name, but it was no use. She just didn't have enough to go on; if she wanted to investigate further, she'd need to get the tape off Lawrence. All she'd been able to find had been general information about the hospital: accusations of abuse through the decades, a fire that had claimed four lives in the seventies, and countless missing children. Looking at the grainy photos, Sam had shivered and closed the browser.

It was now Monday morning, and before Sam set off for VI form, she opened her emails for the fifth time, trying to convince herself that things might not be as hopeless as she remembered. The message read thus:

 

_Dear Mr. and Ms. Burbank,_

_On behalf of_ Brightest Solutions® _(“Making Tomorrow Today-- Yesterday!”™ ), I am delighted to inform you that your daughter has been selected as a possible employee for our subsidiary company,_ Gate to Tomorrow _™ (“Putting the 'normal' back into 'paranormal'!”™) As you may or may not be aware, Samantha possesses formidable spirit-seeing talent, and is our desire, here at_ Gate to Tomorrow™ _, to harness this talent and utilise it for productive means._

_Every year, approximately six hundred million people are afflicted with the torturous condition of undeath. Trapped in a limbo between this world and whatever lies beyond, these poor souls are doomed to an eternity of confusion and isolation, not to mention physical pain. Until recently, this tragic illness was largely ignored; indeed, belief in 'ghosts' was regarded as the province of the delusional._

_Our pioneering company, however, is using the latest in bona fide scientific research to challenge this popular view. We are now certain that, not only do ghosts exist, they are also populous, suffering-- and, to a degree, dangerous._

_This is why we have contacted you. If you are willing to allow your daughter to participate in this work, please provide signature of your consent on the enclosed form, after reading the list of risks, our insurance policy, and our warranty in the following pages. We recommend that you make a copy of this letter and keep it for your personal records. Also, please sign and date every page you have received, (including this one), to ensure that there is evidence that you have received all the relevant paperwork. After you return these documents, we will contact you via the telephone number you provide to check against forgery. Your daughter's safety is, after all, our utmost concern._

_Thank you for your time and patience, and we hope we can soon welcome Samantha to_ Gate to Tomorrow _™!_

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Lawrence Archer,_

_Lawrence Archer_

_MD, Brightest Solutions®._

_(MA (Cantab), MA, PhD, GH, INTJ)_

 

The consent form consisted of thirty pages of dry legalese of which Sam couldn't make head or tail, although the word 'deceased' cropped up a lot. Sam found it almost funny that the Director had bothered. He couldn't seriously think that her parents were going to believe a word.

And then it occurred to her that he _didn't_ seriously think they were going to believe it, and it wasn't funny any more.

That day, her lessons dragged on, and Maths was awkward as always (“So, Samantha, can you tell us what polynomials are now?” “Er... hungry parrots?”), but at first she cheered up when Toto came over to talk at break.

“Hey, Sam, you'll never guess what!” Toto hitched himself up onto the common room windowsill. “Vanessa's _already_ found us a new mission! It's out in the open this time, too, some alleyway, so should be better than the last one.”

“That sounds cool,” said Sam. “I guess I'll get the forms signed after, then. Maybe.”

Toto's smile froze. “Wait-- you haven't got them signed yet?”

“Well, duh.” Sam felt her cheeks grow hot. “But it's not like it's a big deal; I mean, saving the ghost is much more important, right?”

Toto shook his head. “Lawrence doesn't go back on himself,” he said grimly. “Trust me; he once agreed to complete _Adventure Game--_ yeah, the Yaroze one-- for a bet, and he endured the whole thing. Sam, you've got to get that form signed; he'll disband the group otherwise!”

Sam scowled. “I know that! Fine, I'll get it signed tonight...”

Because that was going to happen.

When Sam got home, she tossed her school newsletter onto the sitting room table, said hi to her parents, and then dragged herself upstairs. As she hooked the computer up to the printer, she thought she might be losing her grip on reality. There was no way her parents were going to give their permission, no way in hell; they'd think it was a joke, they'd think she was being weird; they might even think she was insane again. Maybe they'd be right. Faced with the surreal sight of the Director's email coming out of the printer, Sam massaged her temples, half-expecting to wake up at any moment. The pain in her ankle, however, constantly reminded her that this was no dream.

Once she'd printed all the papers, Sam took a deep breath and inched back downstairs, clutching them to her chest. She knew it was ludicrous, but it wasn't like she had any other options. And Toto had looked so upset at the prospect of disbanding...

“Er, D-dad, Mum, c-can you have a read of this, p-please?” she stammered, pressing the papers into her dad's pudgy hands and wishing that the ground would open up and swallow her whole. The silence stretched as her parents read through the Director's letter. Sam felt a bead of sweat roll down her forehead, and she awkwardly sat down on the sofa so that at least she wasn't standing. Her parents seemed to pore over the document forever. She started to fidget, picking up a cushion, pulling at the stitching and seeing how much thread she could wrap around her little finger before the string would snap. The clock ticked on the mantelpiece, each strike echoing louder than the last. She couldn't get the thread to go round even once. And then _eventually_ , when Sam felt like she couldn't take the tension for a moment longer, her parents looked up from the letter, bemused.

“... Is this an English Language project, Sam?” Her dad pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Or, er, Sociology? Are you experimenting on us?” He smiled in a friendly, nonplussed sort of way.

“No, it's nothing to do with school. It's really real, really,” Sam insisted, although she could feel her cheeks growing hot for the second time that day. She hated the way she blushed so easily. Her mum gave her a thin smile, bronze lipstick glistening.

“Sam, I've worked on the Archers' legal team for ten years. Ridiculous as I find Lawrence, he is not the sort of man who believes in ghosts.” Her mum swept back her long, mahogany weave, manicured fingernails gliding across the strands. She glanced at the page again. “He also doesn't have a PhD. If this isn't a bizarre practical joke of yours, then you've been targeted by a virus. It's worrying that they have your full name, though; I hope you haven't been putting personal information up all over the internet-”

“Mum, it's real! Call him, and he'll confirm it!”

Her parents looked at each other and then started to laugh.

“Nice try, Sam,” said her dad, brown eyes twinkling. He turned back to her mum. “Oh, Bridget, can you _imagine_ his face?”

“I'd pay to see it. I'd actually pay to see it. If it wouldn't _lose me my job_. Sorry, Sam.” Her mum laughed her low, husky laugh. “Right, well, if that's that, I'll put this in the paper recycling.”

She walked towards the door, and Sam sprang up.

“No! Look, honestly, just phone him, or, or talk to him tomorrow, and just say you saw, I, I don't know--” She was stumbling over her words, trying to think of something. Her dad put a hand on her shoulder.

“Okay, Sam, it was funny, but I think you should leave it at that. I need to get the dinner ready. I was thinking of meatballs--”

“I don't care!” Sam yelled. She felt like tearing their hair out. “Call Lawrence, one of you, and--”

“Excuse me, young lady.” The laughter had left her mum's eyes. “Don't speak to us like that. Now, we agreed that we found your joke funny. _Found_. Past tense. It's gone on too long, and I, for one, have had a very long day, so go and do your homework-- and don't lie to me; I'll have you know that your Maths teacher phoned your Dad today-- and then we'll all have tea together, for a nice change. I feel like I don't see enough of you these days.” She frowned at Sam's dad, suggesting that his parenting was to blame for Sam's behaviour. This, more than anything, infuriated Sam, and in the blink of an eye she'd grabbed the papers from her mum and chucked them in her face.

There was a ten-minute war, and then Sam couldn't see for tears. She threw her mobile on the floor in frustration. In moments, her dad's hand was on her shoulder as he suggested that she go to her room and calm down for a little while. She pushed him away, stumbled into the hall and shoved past her little sister who'd come to see what all the fuss was about. Her dad called after her, but she ignored him, pounding up the stairs and throwing herself onto her bed and sobbing into her pillow for what felt like forever, until no more tears would come. Her eyes just burned.

Gulping for breath, Sam tried to work out what she was going to tell Toto and the others. She was supposed to be the leader! She punched her pillow in fury. What if Toto thought she hadn't really tried? One part of her psyche told her that was stupid, but another whispered that he thought she was lazy already; he was in her Maths class, after all. And if Emily managed to get her forms signed, when her mum was apparently really overprotective, then...

Sam saw a glimmer of hope. _Had_ Emily got her forms signed? Trying to trick herself into expecting disappointment, Sam dug in her pocket for her phone. And then she _did_ feel disappointed, because she remembered throwing her phone on the sitting room floor and storming off. How could she have done that? That was so-- spoilt _._ And now, if she wanted her phone, she would have to go back downstairs and endure the most awkward evening of her life...

Sam howled into her pillow until she was out of air, then mewled, rolled and shivered to her feet. She wished she could leave her phone down there and email Emily instead, but Emily lived in the Stone Age and didn't have the internet... and maybe her parents deserved an apology... She'd been unfair, expected too much of them... Sam sighed, balled her hands into fists in an attempt to strengthen her resolve, and headed for the stairs.

In the sitting room, Sam's parents' heads were bowed and their attention focused, so they didn't notice Sam entering the room until it was too late and she'd seen them looking through the messages on her mobile.

“... And she said she was at a school concert on the 3rd,” her dad was saying, “But according to that newsletter she left on the table, the concert's at the end of _this_ week. I don't think it's drugs, Bridget, but there's definitely--” He stopped as he saw Sam staring at them, his face shifting from concern to horror. “Sam, honey--”

“That's mine!” She went to grab the mobile, but her mum gripped it, knuckles jutting.

“You have absolutely no right to be outraged, young lady, not after the way you've carried on tonight. And what's this I hear about you lying to your father?”

“That's my phone! That's private!”

“You've been going out late at night without asking, or even _telling_ us where you were headed, and yet you expect us to respect your 'privacy'? Oh, I'm very sorry. Excuse me, _your highness_. Now then, be straight with us, for God's sake. Have you been taking drugs?”

“No! And, like, _why_ would that be the thing that you thought was... the thing?”

“So where have you been?” Her mum's voice shook with anger.

“I-- just-- just a friend's, okay, a friend's house, and, and you guys said no sleepovers on school nights, so--”

“Samantha!” snapped her mum. “I have worked as a barrister for fifteen years, and you are a _terrible_ liar!”

“Just tell us the truth, sweetie,” said her dad. He looked like he was about to cry. “It's okay, if you're scared for whatever reason, it has much more significance in your head than in the real world, but it's important that you _tell us the truth_.”

Sam just wanted to scream from exasperation, but she doubted that would help matters. She tried to think of something convincing: embarrassing, but not dreadful. There was an awful silence as her brain remained blank. Then, like a glorious weed, the idea took root and grew in seconds.

“I-- I was seeing my boyfriend,” she mumbled at last.

“Boyfriend?” her parents sounded stunned. A corner of her mind was rather insulted that they'd assumed she was more likely to be abusing illegal substances than having a romantic relationship.

“Yeah...” she said. “His name's, er, Toto.” Her mum looked sceptical; Sam panicked. “Honestly, he's real, honest! You can call him if you want!” No sooner had she finished than she regretted her words.

There was a pause. Studying Sam's flustered face in a practiced manner, her mum smiled coldly. “I might just do that.”

The mobile seemed to bleep for an eternity. Sam crossed her fingers, desperately hoping that Toto wouldn't pick up. Her heart leapt as she remembered that his phone had been dead in the psychiatric hospital. Toto's voicemail began to speak, and for a moment, Sam thought that her prayers had been answered. Her mother frowned, hung up, and scrolled down the contacts list.

“Here we are,” she said. “Home number.” She rang again, and this time someone picked up. Sam heard a male voice at the other end, and her heart plummeted. Lawrence. He would _never_ let her live this down. Her mother hadn't put the phone on loudspeaker, so she couldn't tell what he said as the conversation progressed, but judging from the way her mum's eyebrows crept higher and higher up her forehead, it couldn't be good. Sam wondered about the specifics.

“Well,” said her mum after a long time. “Mr Archer, I think this has been rather surprising for both of us. Have a good evening, anyway.” She hung up and collapsed back into the chair.

“Archer?” asked Sam's dad. Bridget slowly raised her gaze to look at Sam.

“I didn't realise. When you said 'Toto', you meant Tobias. Tobias, as in, Lawrence Archer's son. Well.”

“Well, yeah,” said Sam. “And?”

Bridget shook her head, dazed. “Nothing, I was just surprised.” Bridget held out the phone. “Samantha, we simply _have_ to meet this boy who thinks it's acceptable to sneak out with our daughter at night, encouraging her to go behind our backs, lie to us and worry us sick. Lunch, this Sunday. We'd like to get to know him.”


	8. Chapter 7.5 (After Sam went to Bed)

 

Chapter 7.5

(After Sam went to bed)

 

“Brilliant,” said Bridget, reaching for the wine. “I work hard, I sacrifice _everything._ ” She poured a large glass. “I barely see the girls, because I can see them, or I can give them a roof over their heads and a future.”

“I know,” said Tim, perceiving the slight plea in the rant. He put the table mats away as Bridget took a long drink. He hoped Sam wasn't hungry. Bridget shivered; he shut the window, almost knocking over the vase of gerberas on the windowsill.

“Finally,” Bridget continued, hunching forward, “after years of sixteen-hour days and non-existent weekends, I start getting somewhere-- but, oh look! I take my eyes off my idiot daughter for three seconds, and she starts a romance with my boss's son. Do you want to send out the wedding invitations, or shall I?”

Tim sat down next to her. “Sam's not an 'idiot'-- and I wish you wouldn't use that word-- she's just young for her age, and I'm not sure if we should apologise for that or see it as an achievement.”

Bridget snorted, but touched his hand in apology. “I know what you mean.” She gazed into her glass. “But we're failing them if we let them grow up fools.”

As Tim put an arm around her shoulders, neither of them noticed the gerberas floating, one by one, out of the vase on the windowsill, and through the open window.


	9. Chapter 8: Flora

Chapter 8

Flora

 

“Sooo, I hear you're my girlfriend!” A snickering Toto draped his arm around Sam's shoulders at school the next day. Sam scowled, ducked out of his embrace, and elbowed him in the ribs for good measure.

“Shut up,” she replied. She hesitated. “Er-- are you okay? You _did_ get my text, right?”

Toto smiled. “Yeah, lunch this Sunday. And?”

“And you obviously don't know my mother. Toto, she is going to _crucify_ you.”

Toto shrugged. “I'm sure I can talk her round.” He leaned back against the lockers, and then had to move as an orange year nine swore at him, trying to access her books. He glanced down. “I forgot to ask, yesterday; how's your ankle?”

“S'okay.” She gave the year nine a venomous look. “I try not to think about it much; it reminds me. I'm still getting nightmares about the bloody _flower_ room.”

Toto nodded. “The flower room,” he said, solemnly.

“Hey, _that_ reminds me, how's our investigation going?”

Toto looked blank.

“The boy on the cassette; has Lawrence found out anything about him?” Despite the drama at home, Sam had been unable to get the child off her mind. He must have felt so abandoned. When she was younger, she used to have nightmares about her parents driving her to a strange house, and leaving her there because she was crazy. That had _actually happened_ to someone. Sam couldn't breathe when she thought about it. She wished she had some way of reaching out through time to help him.

“Oh, right, that.” Toto shook his head. “No, at least, I don't think so. He hasn't said anything.” Toto looked less concerned than Sam would have liked. “Anyway,” he continued, “I was talking to Emmy last night, and apparently she couldn't get her form signed, either. Well, she said she couldn't, but I reckon she didn't even show it to her mum, to be honest.”

Sam felt her temper flare. It must have shown on her face, because Toto rushed on.

“Er, anyway, that's not the point! No, what I was thinking was, well, it's not like we _need_ Lawrence, right? So why don't we just carry on without him? Emmy can handle the money, and I've already spoken to Vanessa, and she's fine with going behind his back as long as she gets paid, so if you're up for it, then, well, what do you think?”

Sam stared at Toto, wondering if he was joking. Had he conveniently forgotten the way the Director had saved all their necks on the last _two_ missions? Although it did sound tempting. The more she thought about the idea, the less Lawrence's role seemed to matter, until her ankle twinged, and she remembered the absolute terror of being trapped in that hospital, clinging to Toto as though her life depended on it.

“Sorry, Toto.” She shook her head. “It's just too dangerous. And I never thought I'd hear myself say that.” She laughed weakly, but Toto didn't join in.

“Right. Well... it's your decision.” Toto stepped back. “I'll-- I'll see you in Maths, then.” He walked away.

Sam felt guilty, but she knew she'd done the right thing. She was glad Toto hadn't argued with her. In fact, he'd taken it surprisingly well.

Toto, meanwhile, was trying his hardest not to get mad at Sam. All right, so there were millions of ghosts in pain all over the globe, and she was one of the very few people who could see them, and she wasn't willing to help even though she might be one of them one day, and the worst injury she'd ever got from a ghost was a twisted ankle. Even then, it wasn't like the ghost had directly caused it, and it didn't seem to matter to her that _his_ father was going to continue to help ghosts on his own even though he wouldn't be able to see them, and that would probably be much more dangerous if it even worked at all. But no. That was fine. She had the right to refuse to do the decent, kind, humanistic thing and instead just sit on her bum all evening, because it wasn't like she ever did any homework, was it? Never mind that Emily and even _Vanessa_ had agreed to help, and if Emily's schoolwork suffered because of the job, then she would lose her scholarship and it wasn't like _she_ had a lawyer mother who could just pay for everything, and yeah, Sam might be a spoilt, selfish brat with no sense of responsibility and a bad temper and a totally unreasonable personality and... Toto was doing a very bad job of not getting mad at Sam.

In Maths, he valiantly resisted the urge to send her a snide text saying, 'Hey, Sam, remember Flora?' and instead tried to focus on his work. But it was hard to get enthusiastic about circle theorems when ghosts dominated his thoughts. Flora had been confused and in pain and so desperately sad, and she'd told them that she'd wanted to kill her own son. She'd only been able to move on when Lawrence had reassured her that her son was dead. To be in a state of mind where that was a _happy_ thought...

“Toto, is something the matter?” The teacher drew up to his desk. Toto shook his head, trying to concentrate. It didn't help that he felt a bit dizzy from his sudden movement. He just didn't understand it. He didn't understand people who could see others suffering and just walk past. His own chest would twinge and he’d feel a sense of rising panic until he could help; Lawrence never stopped teasing him (“Tobias, since you like sponsoring children so much, and since childhood is culturally constructed, why not widen your horizons and sponsor me?"). Things just felt so much more _immediate_ to him. How could you see other human beings in dreadful conditions and _not_ feel desperate to help? And yet the majority _didn't_ care, and he didn't understand it, and it made him furious and tearful if he thought about it for too long.

On the other side of the classroom, Sam gazed blankly at her textbook, praying that the teacher wouldn't ask her a question. She'd already been told that she had detention every evening, starting next Monday. She didn't have a clue how all the letters and numbers matched up with the pictures of circles on the page; for all she knew, the authors could be lying and making up equations at will, and she would be none the wiser. It just wouldn't go in. Maybe there was something wrong with her brain... She smiled sadly to herself, remembering the years when she'd actually believed that she was losing her mind. She tried not to mope about the past as a general rule, but when your own parents whispered between themselves about whether you'd ever be able to lead a normal life...

She shivered, remembering the loneliness and the fear that she was, in some fundamental way, broken. She would never forget the way she'd felt when Toto had shaken his head and said, _“Hey,_ we _don't think there's anything wrong with you. Look, without you, we can't even do our job. If anything, your brain is fancier than most people's. I've seen the scans, remember.”_

 _“Put simply, your brain is strange,”_ the Director had explained. _“I'm sure Tobias would love to go through the specifics with you; I've been unable to tear him away from the scans, but I must warn you: you will be a fully qualified neurologist by the time he has finished.”_

There had been something about an occipital lobe and a primary visual cortex and a cerebral cortex

( _“Because a lot of what makes up a ghost is_ meaning _!”_ Toto had said excitedly, as though that made sense. _“And by the way, that probably means that dogs_ can't _see ghosts, whatever people-- well, other people-- say.”_ )

and since none of it had made any sense to Sam (who, unlike Toto, had _not_ developed a rabid obsession with Oliver Sacks when she was twelve), she'd quickly forgotten the bulk of it. Still, she knew she would never forget the relief she had felt when she found out that there were people who believed her, who thought she made sense and who had medical evidence to back it up.

“Right then, who's finished the exercise?”

Sam looked around. Toto had his hand up, of course. He was the only one; the teacher sighed and then started asking how many questions other people had done. Most said 'five', so Sam said 'two', and luckily the teacher didn't inspect her blank page. Toto caught her eye and smiled. As Sam smiled back, she wondered if he could tell that she was thinking about him.

_“Wow, Sam, it must have been so hard, I mean, with all that and nobody to talk to... I can't even begin to imagine it-- but you just carried on without complaining. You still do. It's amazing.”_

She felt a twinge of regret at the thought of letting the group dissolve. Would Toto still be her friend, or would they drift apart as their interests took them different ways? She'd never learned how to make friends, so she was grateful for the ones (one?) she had. It wasn't just about her, either; what about the suffering ghosts? She winced, remembering Flora. And what about the boy from the hospital, trapped and belittled and alone?

No. She couldn't just give up in the face of danger. If the Director wouldn't help them, so be it. They'd do it on their own, and they'd do a damn good job of it, too, because she was Sam, and her brain was strange, and she was the best leader in the world.

The lesson ended some time after the bell rang (“the bell is the signal for _me,_ not for _you_ , and I want to go over this last proof before we pack up”). Sam tipped her books into her bag and raced after Toto before he could vanish. She nearly tripped over a street sign propped against the wall; the younger students would often steal weird things.

“Toto!” she called, louder than she intended, as she left the classroom. Several people glanced her way. “Toto, get over here!”

“You’ve got legs of your own,” Toto murmured, but he returned. “What is it?”

Sam took a deep breath. “Okay. I'm probably going to regret this, but okay. We'll carry on with the group, with or without the Director. That's what I wanted to tell y--”

Toto dropped his books and hugged her; someone down the corridor wolf-whistled.

“Thank-you, Sam!” Toto grinned, and then added mischievously, “You're the best girlfriend in the world.”

She smacked him on the head with a book, but it was a friendly smack. “Shut up. You know, thanks to my lying genius, Dad only went and gave me The Talk yesterday-- and I didn't want to get in any more trouble, so I had to pretend to be listening really carefully while he went on about-- stop laughing!” Sam smacked Toto's arm; he was gripping her forearm hard, almost crying with laughter. She sighed. “Anyway. Where's the mission, then?”

Toto wiped his eyes, still giggling a bit. “I'll-- I'll send you a link to the map reference tonight, but yeah, it's just an alleyway-- so it shouldn't be anything like as bad as the last one. And I'll be able to come with you guys in the daytime this time, if we do it this Saturday, so we can scope it out first, just in case there's a pit of burning spikes or something. But it should be straightforward.”

“Fingers crossed,” said Sam. She noticed that Toto's lips had started to twitch again, but before she could break his neck, the bell for next lesson rang, and they had to run.

A few minutes later, in the empty corridor, Sam's locker opened on its own. Her books flipped open and shut again, before the locker closed with a bang. A single lily was left on the floor.

*

The next day, Sam skipped her usual productive and rewarding _Samsaric Asymptotes_ session in order to meet up with the others. She'd had an idea.

“So, Sam, what's this 'SUPER URGENT OMG' meeting about?” Toto sat down next to Emily on the park bench. He shuffled up so that Sam would fit.

“More importantly, _is_ it super-urgent?” Emily tapped her pen against her folder. “Because I've been waiting for you two for half an hour, and I have an essay due next Monday, so if it can wait--”

“It's not my fault you got here early.” Sam opened a packet of mints, plonking herself down next to Toto. “Want one?”

“ _You_ said to meet at 5--”

“Well, I meant 5:30, big deal, you'll live.” Sam decided that if Emily wanted a mint, she'd missed her chance.

“It's _cold_ \--”

“Ooh, can I have a mint?” Toto intervened. “Okay, Sam, why are we here?”

Emily glowered.

Sam chucked a mint Toto's way. “It's been bugging me-- the boy from the tape. I want to find him, let him know that _we_ know what happened to him. So he knows there's someone on his side...”

They watched a flock of starlings swirl in the twilight. It already seemed darker than when they'd first sat down. The birds' wings flapped out of sync. A dog barked. From a distant tree hung a spiderweb, beaded with rain.

“Even if it's late...” said Sam. She looked over at the tree where they'd first met Flora, though Flora would have been hidden from this angle.

“Do you think that's wise?” said Emily.

Sam bit harder on her mint.

“No,” Emily persisted, “suppose he believes that you can see ghosts-- mightn't it just make him angry? Knowing that you're so much luckier?”

“So, what, we should just leave him to it, on the off-chance he's petty?” Sam swallowed the mint. “Screw that.”

Emily sighed.

Sam pulled out her laptop. “We can try looking around on here.”

“You brought your _laptop_ to the _park_?” Emily said 'laptop' in the tone usually reserved for 'newborn', and 'park' in the tone reserved for 'alligator-juggling contest'.

“Yeah, blame Mum; she won't get me a tablet.” Sam turned the laptop on.

“Um.” Toto helped himself to another mint, earning an amused scowl from Sam. “If and only if we democratically decided to look for the boy, how would we find him?”

Sam scratched her scalp. “Eh, that's the bit I'm still fuzzy on. What I was thinking was, well, he can't be too young, because the place closed in the seventies. Aaaand then Flora was German. So. We look around-- not sure how just yet-- for middle-aged-ish guys with German names. Might narrow it down-- oh, what is your _problem_?”

Emily had snorted.

Toto became engrossed in Sam's laptop's startup screen.

“Sam, you're being ridiculous.” Emily pulled out her History textbook and started flicking through it. “Utterly ridiculous.”

“And _that's_ super-helpful!”

Toto took the laptop. He hummed to himself as he waited for the browser to load.

Emily looked up from her book. “ _Flora_ doesn't have a German name, and she's the one who was actually German, so why would her son--”

“Oh, so, what, we should narrow the search down to men _with names_? Yeah, nice work--”

“I can't believe you dragged us out here--”

“Hey!” Toto interrupted. “Look at this!” He pointed at the laptop screen.

“Local man...” Sam read over his shoulder. “Lukas Amsel, forty-five, exposes shocking asylum abuse horror scandal terror-- nice one, Toto!” She turned to Emily. “You were saying?”

Emily scowled. “Aren't you jumping to conclusions?”

“What more do you need?”

Emily scanned the page. “There's nothing about ghosts.”

“Well, duh.” Sam popped another mint in her mouth. “He's not going to go shouting his head off, is he? Look what happened last time he tried it.” Sam glanced back at the screen, then paused. “I mean really, _look_. If this stuff is true, then...”

“We have to do something,” murmured Toto. “This is just sick. I don't understand...”

Emily put her textbook down. “Even if it were him, how would we track him down?

Sam shrugged. “Search the site, Toto.”

Emily rolled her eyes. “He's hardly going to put his address up on the internet for everyone to see--”

“Found it!”

*

That night, Sam hopped around her bedroom, swishing her toothbrush like a conductor's baton. Tomorrow they'd meet him! She punched the air, toothpaste splattering all over her carpet. Her toes danced. Twirling the toothpaste cap on, she tried to imagine what Lukas Amsel would look like. She peered into her mirror. Would they have some physical feature in common? Like spirally Al Bhed pupils? She hated to think that she'd walked past spirit-seers in the past and not known...

She knew she was jumping ahead, but she was too excited to do anything else. Yeah, the chances had seemed small, but she was already statistically improbable, given that she could see ghosts at all. And lots of unlikely stuff had already happened to them. Unlikely stuff happened all the time. She tried to stay calm, and measured, and realistic, but she just _couldn't_. She doubted anyone else could understand. Somewhere out there, there _was_ someone else like her, and she was going to meet him.

After turning the light off with a jaunty smack, she bounced into bed. Emily might have her doubts, but Sam could _feel_ it was him. Coincidences like that didn't just _happen_. Curling up on her side, she hugged her knees. What would she say to him? Would he instantly recognise her as being like him? Would she cry? She hoped he wouldn't find her patronising-- but she was sure she could explain, and he'd see she was earnest. She imagined the conversation again and again, in different variations. To finally be able to talk to someone who really understood...

She felt almost exposed. She wondered if he'd feel the same. Here was a chance that someone would not just sympathise, but _empathise_. Would he join them? She rolled onto her stomach, kicking her feet. Maybe they could research together, discover what made them different. So much better than Emily's idle curiosity or (Sam felt a little mean for thinking it) Toto's indiscriminate pity. And definitely better than the Director's "get over it; people cope with worse".

She squeezed her eyes shut and squealed.

*

 

“I still think this is a stupid idea.” Through the drizzle the next day, Emily could see Sam waiting at the end of the road.

“We don't have anything to lose.” Toto pushed his sodden fringe out of his eyes.

“So you _do_ think it's a waste of time.” Emily tilted her umbrella so he could fit under it more easily. “I wish you'd said something.”

“You saw her in the hospital.” Toto put his hands in his pockets and huddled closer.

Emily checked her watch. “I know, but I don't think we should just abandon all common sense. Do you think she's even thought through what she'll say if it _is_ him?”

“We'll find out.” He smiled as they drew up to Sam. “Hey. Hope we didn't keep you waiting.”

Sam shook her head distractedly. “It's this one.” She pointed at the house in front of them. “You guys ready?”

They nodded.

Sam knocked on the door. And waited.

And waited.

She knocked again. Still nothing.

Emily coughed.

Sam glared and knocked again.

Silence.

Toto patted Sam's arm. “It's okay. We can try again another--”

The door burst open. An iron-haired woman stood in the frame. She had a face like a rhinoceros that had bitten into a cookie, expecting chocolate chips, only to discover raisins.

Sam's stomach sank, but she persevered nonetheless. “Er, hi. Does-”

“You here to speak to my son?” the woman cut her off.

“Lukas?” said Sam, heart beating fast.

The woman nodded. Emily tugged on Sam's arm; Sam ignored her.

“Yeah, can we talk to him?” said Sam. Everything felt unreal. The light seemed sharper, the doorstep redder; the flowers in the hanging basket jostled for room.

“You from the _Mail_?”

Sam shook her head.

“Wait here.” The woman disappeared back into the house, closing the door. They heard her yell up the stairs.

Sam turned to the others triumphantly. “There!” She could barely believe it herself.

Emily looked at Toto. Since he was staring at his shoes, she supposed it fell to her to burst Sam's bubble. “Sam, she called Lukas her son. _Her_ son.”

Sam paused for a moment, then tried to sprint off. Emily grabbed her arm as the door opened.

A muscular man in a tank top glowered at them from the doorway. “Can I help you?”

Emily glanced at the others, struggling to think of a polite way to get rid of him. “Um, yes, um, so, a quick question: do you have faith in God?”

“Ah, hello!” Mr Amsel's glare relaxed into a smile. “I've considered doing some evangelical work myself, actually.”

“Oh,” said Emily.

“Yes,” Amsel continued. “Not to save souls, you understand; I don't believe God sends anyone to hell; people have made that up. But when I was suffering, with no-one to listen, I got through it by remembering that no matter what, He loved me. Now, I know He's watching over me, supporting me. It devastates me to think that some struggle alone. I'd be honoured to help.”

“Oh,” said Emily.

“You're doing valuable work.” Amsel beamed. “Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?”

“Oh,” said Emily.

Sam had regained the ability to speak. “Er, no, see, we're _atheist_ missionaries-- have you ever considered letting the Lord God out of your life?”

Amsel's smile vanished. “I find that deeply offensive.”

Toto stepped between them. “Um, don't worry, I'm just a regular missionary; I'm following her about.” He gestured at Sam. “Damage control. She's a menace.”

Amsel didn't look convinced.

“Y-yes,” said Emily quickly. “M-me too-- I mean, I'm not a menace; menaces are menacing-- and we'll be going now!”

They legged it.

“I like how you guys disowned me,” Sam grumbled a few streets later, flopping against a wall and panting.

“I'm short and fragile,” said Toto. He pulled his trousers up; the turn-ups were soaked. “And I liked him.”

“What's your excuse?” Sam turned to Emily.

“ _You_ were free to recant,” Emily reminded her.

They sat down under a bus shelter.

“So...” Toto sighed, watching the cars go past. “Back to square one.”

“Nope,” said Sam. “You're forgetting: we've ruled out _one_ guy.” She kicked the pavement savagely. Pain shot through her ankle. She gritted her teeth.

They sat in silence.

“We could go back and ask him if he remembers anything?” Toto suggested. “He might still know something about the boy. Or we could put up an ad online?”

“I really thought it would be him,” murmured Sam.

Toto put an arm around her shoulders. “There's no rush. It's probably awkward to go back now, but I'll write him a letter.”

“Yes.” Emily resisted the urge to say 'I told you so'. “Are we still working on Saturday?”

Sam sighed. “Yeah, I guess.” She straightened up; Toto's arm fell away. “Right, well, that's that. See you then.”

She didn't cry until she was alone.


	10. Chapter 8.5: The Fairy Tale

Chapter 8.5

The Fairy Tale

 

Emily had a strange dream that night.

She experienced things from the perspective of a young boy, curled up in his mother's lap. The boy was relieved it was one of his mother's better days; she had dressed and even opened the curtains.

“Would you like a story?” she asked, running a comb through her pale hair.

His stomach rumbled, but he nodded. There was no food in, and a story would distract him.

“In a forest near Berchtesgaden,” his mother said, resting back on the pillows. “There is a well. If you tiptoe over on a quiet night, and you lean over the edge, and you listen very, very carefully, do you know what you will hear?”

He shook his head, cuddling against her, her ribs poking into his shoulder.

“You will hear a little girl laughing. The sound, it comes from the bottom of the well, forty-foot down, and black as coal. The rope rotted long ago. There is no way out, yet she is laughing.”

“Why?” He wrapped himself in his mother's arms, which were thinner than his. He was careful not to catch against her inner right wrist; she had scratched it raw.

“Well,” said his mother. “Once upon a time, there was a little servant girl. She lived with a cruel and wealthy family: a father, his wife, and their three sons. The girl was always starving. Her clothes and shoes were too thin, too tight, and filled with holes. Imagine, holes in your shoes, letting in the water!” She tickled his feet; he squeaked and kicked away. She pulled him back, and continued. “All day, every day, she would break her back fetching and carrying, burning herself in the kitchens, making herself sick cleaning bird muck out of the gutters-- while the rich sons would scream at her and hit her if she made a mistake-- or if they just felt like hitting her.”

He sat quietly, imagining.

“The job she hated most,” his mother continued, “was fetching water from the well. She had to take a long, dangerous walk, into the forest, where there lurked wolves and worse. In the snowy cold, her hands would be cracked and bleeding by the time she returned the bucket to the mansion.”

“Why didn't she just fill the bucket with snow?” he asked.

His mother laughed. “Ah, you're sharp. She tried that, once. The family caught her and made her eat the snow. Have you ever eaten a bucket of snow when you're already half-dead from cold?”

He shook his head.

“Don't try it.” She stroked his hair, carefully straightening his pyjama collar. “So. One day, she was stocking the fireplace with coal, when the tongs slipped out of her hands. Soot covered the new carpet. She held in a scream, for she knew that, when she was caught, the family would snatch the tongs to beat her within an inch of her life. She tried to clean it up, but the stain only spread.”

He held his breath.

“So,” she continued, “the servant girl decided to hide. Now, where would you hide?”

“I don't know. I don't know enough about the place.”

She nodded. “True, but in general?”

“Um... a basement?”

His mother shook her head. “No, that's a bad idea. A basement has only one exit, which is also the entrance. If someone follows you into a basement, you cannot get away.” She started to scratch her wrist. “You should always try to hide somewhere with more exits than entrances. High places are good, because you can jump down in many directions-- and people rarely look up.”

“Where did she hide, then?” he asked, a little annoyed. He didn't see how he could have guessed something like that.

His mother smiled, a trickle of blood running down from her wrist to her elbow. “If she had known what I have just told you, she would have hidden in one of the forest trees. But she did not know, and she panicked. She ran to the forest, and considered hiding in a cave, but she knew she would be too easy to find. Then she saw the well.”

“She knew that the sons were not as brave as her. They would never follow her down the well, not when they might fall forty feet. So, carefully, despite her bleeding feet, she pulled herself onto the lip. She looked down. The drop frightened her, but the sons frightened her more.”

His mother held him tight, and continued, “She grasped the rope, and slowly lowered herself in. She was so starved that the rope took her weight without a problem. Like this.” She lightly pulled on his hair.

“What happened next?”

His mother paused. “The plan worked,” she said at last. “The servant girl heard shouts from the mansion, and pounding feet, and the dogs barking-- at one point, she heard one of the great rottweilers panting right outside the well-- but they did not find her. Eventually, the family headed back home.

He exhaled. He hadn't realised he'd been holding his breath.

His mother continued, in a sad voice, “By this point, though, the little servant girl was ever so weak and tired. She had not eaten, and so many hours had passed; her legs felt numb, her arms as fragile as the dried pine needles on the forest floor. She tried to pull herself back up the rope, but found, with quiet dread, that she lacked the strength.”

“Her eyes kept closing. She tried to use her fear to keep herself awake, to push herself out of the well, but her body was already shutting down. Her eyes closed a final time, her grip loosened, and she fell.”

“Did she live?” asked the boy, gripping his mother's arm.

His mother shook her head, gently prying him off before his palm could get too bloody. “But she didn't feel any pain. It was an end to the pain.” She sighed, staring out of the window.

He recognised the warning signs, and quickly interrupted. “So, what then?”

His mother took a deep breath, made herself smile, sat up, and continued. “Well. You have probably guessed that it was the little servant girl's ghost haunting the well.”

He nodded.

“Normally, when a ghost haunts a place or a thing, it cannot travel very far. The place or thing is a kind of anchorpoint, because it has so much significance to the ghost.”

This matched with what he'd seen. “So, the well was significant to her because she'd died there.” He wished his mother hadn't made the girl die in her story.

“Yes,” said his mother. “But because she had suffered the cruel actions of others, she could not rest until they were punished. So, she could travel some distance from the well. The angrier a ghost, the more lively it is.”

He had never seen a lively ghost, but then he knew his mother couldn't see them. Nobody else could see them. And the stories were always more dramatic than the reality. “What happened next?”

His mother arranged the flowers in the vase by the bed. “The eldest son was handsome, and very proud of it. He also liked to drink. That night, as he slept in a deep, drunken stupor, his bedroom door opened. A knife floated in.” She smiled. “A needle and thread followed it, along with a wriggling drawstring purse. They landed on the covers.”

He looked out of the window, hearing other children coming out of school.

“The drawstring bag opened, and out floated-- can you guess what floated out?”

“Um... a mouse?”

His mother laughed. “Give him a sweet little mouse to play with? That would be too kind!” She smiled. “No, out of the bag floated a maggot. The bag was _filled_ with maggots, crawling over each other, bodies writhing. They stank of rotting flesh. Have you ever smelled a maggot eating his lunch?”

He shook his head, frightened.

“Well, I hope you never have to. They eat dead things, so if you squash one, you won't forget the smell in a hurry. Anyway, out of the bag floated a maggot. It--”

There was a bang, cutting his mother off. His father was home. The boy jumped off the bed, about to pretend to be sick, but he tripped over, and by the time he'd righted himself, it was too late; his father's feet were already storming up the stairs. Before he could leave the room, his father had wrenched the door open.

“Why aren't you at school?” the man shouted, cheeks scarlet. He glared past the boy, at his mother. “Do you want him to fail? Do you want _him_ to lie in bed all day, drinking and God-knows-what else, screwing up _his_ son in twenty years? Is that it?”

As the mother started to cry, the scene fell away, and Emily woke.


	11. Chapter 9: Omnomnom

Chapter 9

Omnomnom

 

That Saturday, Sam pulled her scarf tight as she peered down The Street With No Name (“Okay, Toto, where're we headed?” “The Street With No Name” “Oh, great, a street with no name, brilliant.” “No, its name is The Street With No Name! Gotta love the paradox!” “You're joking.” “Narp!”), using her free hand to shield her eyes from the reflected glare of sunlight on the cobblestones. Toto and Emily stood a couple of steps behind her, eagerly watching.

“Well?” asked Toto. “What does it look like?”

Sam frowned. “I can't see anything. Though I guess it could be the light...” She walked a few yards farther down the alley, checking behind protruding bits of stonework, but soon it was clear that there was no ghost. “Guys, I think the client's made a mistake. There's nothing here. Looks like we'll only be taking half the money.”

Now it was Toto's turn to frown. “If we're not doing anything, then we shouldn't be paid for it. Let's give back the deposit.”

Sam fought to keep her patience; Toto tried to argue _every single time_ this happened, and it happened more often than not. “Look, the last thing we need is delusional people who _think_ they can see ghosts going around telling people that _we're_ hopeless. We'll keep the deposit-- just the deposit; we'll tell the guy he got a discount because the job was easy, and that way we get good publicity _and_ make a profit. 'Sides, Vanessa's not going to help us if we don't pay her.”

Toto wasn't happy, but past experience told him he was outnumbered, so he trudged behind the others as they decided to make their way to a café.

“... Because it's bloody freezing,” said Sam. “So. Looks like we've got a free afternoon to wander around. Do you guys want to do anything?”

“I want to give back the deposit,” said Toto.

Sam ignored him. “Emily?”

“Not really. It's too cold, and I don't need to buy anything... although from what I can tell, there’s only the newsagent, anyway, no real shops... Maybe we should just go home. Do they even _have_ cafés round here?”

Sam groaned. “Come on!” She grabbed her friends by the hands and marched up past the station that bordered The Street With No Name, heading towards the grumble of traffic. If it were a main road, she figured, they'd probably find a café. “There might be some nice shops, you never know.”

They passed a dead pigeon and some grimy public toilets and reached the corner. Sam was right; it was a main road, but Emily raised an eyebrow.

“Three pound shops, and that one is displaying half its merchandise on the floor outside. Yes, this is nice.” She tightened her scarf with a sharp tug.

“And why's it selling buckets and spades?” Toto jigged his leg, attempting to keep warm. “It's November. In Manchester. How much sand do they think there _is_ round here?”

“Oh, shut up,” snapped Sam. She dragged them across the road and up towards the peculiar pound shop. “I want a cola.”

“There are fairy lights in the window...” murmured Toto. “That is never a good sign.”

Inside, things got even stranger. Sofa-sized, fluffy toy tigers lay on various aisles (a woman with a pushchair struggled to get past one; Toto ran to help her out), and at the till, a boy haggled the price of some chewing gum with the cashier. Looking around, Sam noticed that absolutely nothing in the pound shop cost a pound. A little girl with a red balloon and strangely pale eyes stood by the door, watching them. There were flowers in her hair.

Toto came back over. “D'you know, those tigers cost £250. I'm tempted.”

Sam bought her pound shop cola for 29p (“You should have _haggled_ ,” said Emily) and they left.

“Er, don't look now,” said Toto, as they ambled farther down the street, “but I think that kid's following us.”

“The weird one?” asked Sam, trying to catch a glimpse without drawing attention to herself. Toto looked uncomfortable with the description, but he nodded. Out of the corner of her eye, Sam could make out the edge of a bobbing, red balloon.

“She might just be going the same way,” said Emily. “Perhaps we should cross the road and see if she follows us. If she does, we cross back.”

“And if she follows us, then?”

“Then we talk to her, I suppose,” said Emily. “I just don't want to start a conversation with her if it happens to be a coincidence. I always feel really awkward when I talk to children, to tell you the truth. Raph's the same. He says it's like they can see his soul, and they find it lacking. Babies are the worst.”

Sam exchanged an amused look with Toto. “Fine, whatever,” she said, feeling guilty.

They crossed the road, and the little girl followed. The traffic light was still green by the time she reached the other side, so they crossed back almost immediately, and again she followed. Sam's feet were just touching the kerb when a large white van sped through the lights, smacking into the little girl and sending her somersaulting through the air. They stared in horror as she landed with a sickening thud, her tiny body lifeless. The driver zoomed off. The girl's head was twisted at an unnatural angle.

Then the little girl opened her eyes, calmly got to her feet, twisted her head around with one hand, and stared at the team once more, before taking off at a run back the way they had come.

They raced after her. Sam had the weirdest feeling that this was their ghost, even though the others could see her, and there were still patches of her blood soaking into the tarmac. Sure enough, the girl led them right back to The Street With No Name, before vanishing behind a block of stone. Sam reached it moments later, peering, but the undead girl had gone.

“Looks like we'll be getting paid after all,” said Sam, panting for breath. Emily shook.

“Th-that was h-horrible...”

Toto put an arm round Emily's shoulders. Sam felt a flicker of annoyance; it had been horrible for _her_ too.

“Yeah, well.” She tried to sound leader-y. “She probably didn't enjoy it much, either. Maybe that's how she died, and now she's stuck on a loop or something. Maybe.”

“It doesn't fit with anything we've seen of ghosts so far, though,” said Toto, pulling Emily closer as she shook. “Maybe we should call Vanessa. Or my cousin, he lives round here; maybe he could help us out.”

“H-how can you two be so c-c-calm about this?” asked Emily, her voice rising. Sam and Toto looked at each other.

“We've seen worse,” they said in unison.

“Want me to describe a choked corpse for you?” added Sam vindictively, but Toto glared at her.

“Cut it out.”

They crossed the road and sat down together at a nearby bus stop, keeping watch on The Street With No Name. For a few minutes, they stayed totally silent.

“I've never seen anyone die before,” mumbled Emily at last, gazing down at the cigarette stubs and chewing gum that littered the floor.

“Well, technically, you haven't seen anyone die _yet_ , seeing as how she was already dead and all that,” said Sam.

“You're probably still in shock, Emmy,” said Toto, ignoring Sam. “It's okay. Should we call Vanessa?”

Vanessa, it turned out, was perfectly useless. Not only did she know nothing about the ghost, but she hung up on them after twenty seconds.

“I got the impression she wasn't alone,” explained Toto. “That Kurt guy.”

Sam pulled a face remarkably reminiscent of a blobfish.

Toto struggled not to laugh; he felt like it would be disrespectful somehow, even though he knew the girl was already dead. “Maybe we should just keep watch, or something?”

“Until dark?” asked Emily. She didn't look thrilled at the prospect. Across the road, a drunk staggered out of an off-licence and collapsed against the wall of The Street With No Name. Sam watched, impressed; it was only 4pm.

“Well, yeah, I guess,” said Toto. “It shouldn't take too long, though; I think it's already beginning to get dark. Good job it's not summer.”

Emily huffed. “Why are there never any ghosts in the centre of town?”

Sam laughed hollowly, watching a crisp packet blow past. “There are loads, actually. Market Street's so crowded, it's ridiculous. Like a wall. But if you're asking why we don't try to get rid of them, it's because it's too busy. Someone living would see us.”

“So?” said Emily testily.

“So use your brain.” (Emily scowled) “If they overheard us, and saw stuff levitating and whatnot at the same time, or if they could see ghosts and then they saw them vanish, they'd know that all you have to do to get rid of a ghost is tell it you've given it whatever it wants most. And once that's common knowledge, wham! No business for us. Plus there's the small stuff like people thinking you're mad.” Sam laughed, but Toto gave her a shrewd look. He didn't say anything as his free hand found hers and squeezed it tight, stroking her palm with his thumb.

“I still think we could find better places, though,” said Emily. “I don't understand why we end up with so many gloomy alleys and abandoned houses and ruins! Why can't we have more museums?”

“Hey, the museum's actually been the second worst one so far!” said Toto. “Maybe not the scariest--”

“No,” said Sam. “The freaking _flower room_ wins that one.”

Toto gave her hand a squeeze. “But as far as injuries go...” He let go of Emily to gesture at the shadows of bruises that still covered his face. “As for the ruins, I guess they just get more stories. And stories spread.”

“Mmm,” said Sam, distracted by the warmth of Toto’s hand in hers. “And-- and although there are quiet streets, it's better to avoid residential areas, because...” She gave her head a sharp shake and folded her arms; Toto let his hand fall onto the bench. “Er, yeah, because the ghosts can smash things, and people don't like getting their cars and their windows smashed. Plus, if we're standing around on dark streets, it can look like we're, er, doing trade, you know?”

“Well, we are doing _a_ trade,” said Toto. Sam gave him her best Unimpressed Face; Toto poked her nose. Emily rolled her eyes dramatically.

“I'm going to the newsagent,” she said. “Back in a minute.”

“You okay now?” asked Toto as Sam made a rather hideous face at Emily's back. Sam's features shifted into something more human, and she nodded.

“I wasn't _not_ okay,” she said stubbornly. “Anyway. Er.” There was a silence that was both pleasant and awkward. Sam wiggled her foot, experimenting with the way the sunset elongated its shadow. “So... You saw something worse?” As conversational topics went, it might not have been the most cheerful, but it was the first thing that came to mind.

“Oh?” Toto looked confused for a second, then his face clouded. “Oh, right. Yeah, I was in hospital when I was a kid, and there were a few people.” He drew his knees up to his chest. “I'd rather not talk about it, actually, if that's alright.”

“Okay...” Sam watched a cat wind its way through the growling cars and hop onto the kerb on the other side of the street. “So, er, why were you in hospital?”

Toto frowned. “I just said I didn't want to talk about it.”

Sam blushed. “Oh... I thought you just meant about the people... er, sorry.”

The silence stretched on, uncomfortably awkward this time, as the sky darkened further. After a while, Sam felt like she was going to suffer a slow and painful death from the tension, so she got up and walked a short way back towards The Street With No Name, then stopped, leaning against the rail that fenced off the block of flats behind her. She was almost relieved to see Emily returning. As Emily drew closer, Sam noticed a movement across the road, to the right. The cat from before was pawing at the ground in front of The Street With No Name, wary but curious. As it slunk down the alley, Sam thought its spiky shadow looked like a silhouette from a cartoon, and she was wondering if she should bother to point it out to the others, when her heart stopped.

She raced across the busy road. The others ran after her, with a little more caution, and Toto grabbed her hand just as they reached the pavement.

“What was it? What did you see?”

“There was a cat, the ghost grabbed its tail, it's there, a hand shot out, that sticky-out-bit, that middle one.” Sam stepped onto the kerb, then experienced a sort of whiplash as she tried to run forward and Toto pulled her arm back. Her phone fell on the ground.

“Sam, look, there, the floor!” He pointed towards the area she'd gestured at seconds ago. Sam looked.

A cat's skull looked back.

“I-is it the same one, do you think?” asked Emily.

“It wasn't there before,” said Toto quietly.

As Sam turned round to pick up her phone, a pigeon alighted on the cobbles of The Street With No Name. Toto and Emily watched. It took two steps before keeling over, stripped to a skeleton before it hit the ground.


	12. Chapter 10: A Familiar Face

Chapter 10

A Familiar Face

 

Seth cursed as the microrocket bounced off his gatepost and very nearly exploded. He'd been refining its navigational system for weeks, but every time he took it out for a walk, it shot into the same damn gatepost.

As the rocket hovered in the air, Seth checked it for damage. Everything seemed intact, although when he tried to activate the invisicamo, the rocket turned bright pink and started to moo. Seth turned the invisicamo off again. The noise stopped.

He sighed and started up the pavement, microcket bobbing away at knee height. He'd head to the station and back-- far enough to test the rocket's capabilities without wearing it out. Hopefully nobody would notice, although if they did, he thought they probably wouldn't say anything. There was something to be said for living in an area where muggers hung out in the local primary school gazebo.

“Come on, Delilah,” he chirruped. “Walkies.”

*

 

“Vanessa,” said Toto, into Sam's phone, “is it possible for a ghost to suck the life out of a living creature and leave nothing but a skeleton?”

“Why?” said Vanessa over the loudspeaker. “Has a ghost just sucked the life out of a living creature and left nothing but a skeleton?”

“Yeah.”

“There you go, then.” Vanessa hung up.

In the alleyway, all was still, but Sam wasn't fooled. “Look.” She tapped her foot. “We're not coming any closer, so there's no point in lying in wait.”

Nothing for a few moments. Then Sam saw a stirring, a quivering, and a pair of pale eyes peeped out from behind the bricks.

“Oopsie,” said the ghost-girl, pouting as Sam's gaze fixed on hers. “You caught me!” She smirked and stepped towards the team, her buttoned shoes gleaming white against the grubby pavement. Her injuries had healed. As she tiptoed closer, Sam, Toto, and Emily inched away, over to the drunk. Toto's gaze flicked from the bird skeleton to the girl and back. When she noticed him, the ghost let out a high, cold giggle, her bloodstained pigtails swaying.

“Oh, you _sweethearts_! I can't hurt you, not when I'm in a body.” She bared her teeth in a smile. “Well, unless I have a nailbat, I suppose, but I can't eat your flesh or anything like that.” After kicking the cat's skull out of her way, she continued to tiptoe toward the team.

Sam glanced behind her. The street was empty.

“But I can talk all on my own,” the ghost continued, clicking to get Sam's attention, “and I can move as far as I like from my anchorpoint.” She pointed at the street sign, which was too high up for her to reach. “I bet you've never met a ghost who could do _that._ ”

Sam nodded, still backing away. She knew that ghosts moved with their anchorpoints, She wondered what would happen if she _destroyed_ the anchorpoint.

“And the best part is,” the ghost-girl continued, dropping her voice to a stage-whisper, “if anyone comes near enough to movethat anchorpoint, I can drain the life from them! So I get to kill lots and lots and lots of people-- anyone who goes up the station steps. And once I've killed them, I can use their bodies.” The little girl giggled, though her smile didn’t reach her eyes.

Sam, Toto and Emily stared at each other, then back at the ghost-girl.

The ghost-girl beamed at them. “Are you impressed? Most ghosts can't kill, you know. They find it too difficult.”

Sam looked at the blood flaking off the ghost-girl's arm. “So, how come you're different?” She wanted to keep her talking.

The ghost-girl sighed. “I used to ask myself the same question-- but I suppose you're asking why I can kill?”

“Er, yeah.”

“Would you like a story?” The ghost-girl swung her arms, nail polish glittering. “I haven't had to tell a story in a long time; I've missed it-- though back then I suppose I was too tired to appreciate it...” She drifted off, staring into space. Sam looked at Toto and Emily; they returned her gaze just as helplessly. As Sam wondered what to do, a car backfired, and the ghost-girl snapped out of her daze.

“Well, then,” the ghost-girl continued, peeling dried blood off her arm with an annoyed expression, as though she'd only just noticed it, “once upon a time, there lived a blind old cat, in this very alleyway. I can't say I liked it-- my favourite animals are cooked animals.” She picked up the pigeon's skull, tossing it from hand to hand. “But it kept itself to itself, and I think that's a respectable thing in a cat. And in a human.” She glared at Sam and pelted the pigeon's skull at her; it hit Sam's elbow with a crack.

Sam cried out, but Toto cut in, seeing his chance. “We're sorry if we disturbed you.” He tried to keep his voice even, despite his panic. “We can go if you want.”

“Like, right now,” added Sam, rubbing her elbow.

The ghost-girl laughed. “How convenient!” She smiled and leaned against the wall. “Unfortunately, I intend to murder you.”

“But what about your story?” said Emily quickly, as the ghost stepped toward them. “You said there was a cat in the alleyway--”

“Oh, yes, the cat.” The ghost clapped her hands together. “So! One day, a pigeon realised the cat was blind and could barely walk. Can you guess what it did?”

“Erm...” said Sam.

“It tried to peck the cat's eyes out!” The ghost-girl balled her hands into fists. “Just for fun!” She shook her head. “Well, I don't care for animals, but I know what it's like to be trapped and brutalised, and I won't stand for it, I _won't_. You should never stand for that sort of thing, because one day you'll know what it's like to experience it, and your guilt will kill you if your persecutors don't.”

Sam thought it was a bit rich for a murderous ghost to give life advice, but she didn't think it wise to point that out.

“So I picked up that cowardly pigeon,” the ghost-girl continued, “and I bashed its brains out against this wall here.” She demonstrated with her fist, until it was bloody and bruised. “And, what do you know, this darling little body ran across the road to help the poor birdy.” Pointing at herself, she giggled. “Well, the Green Cross Man wasn't there when _she_ crossed the road. And from _then_ I could kill people with my own hands, and, well, the rest is history.”

Sam felt sick.

“Literally, history!” the ghost continued. “I made the news! That was a different murder, though. Another story for another day...” She closed her colourless eyes, smiling but trembling.

Sam took another couple of steps back and tripped over the catatonic drunk. She tumbled to the floor and landed on her bottom; the ghost crouched down in front of her, staring into her eyes.

“Do I know you? Every time I've seen you, you've seemed familiar...” The ghost studied Sam for a moment and shrugged. “Nope, it’s gone, just like everything else. Meanwhile, I'm feeling ever so murderous, and you _did_ wrong me. Be a dear...” The girl grabbed at Sam's hair.

Sam shrieked and pushed her away with all her strength. The girl staggered back a few steps.

“Hey! That's unfair.” The girl pouted. “You're bigger than me. Then again...” The girl's body rippled, and turned into a nondescript middle-aged man. “I can change that.” The ghost-man grabbed Sam's ankle. She kicked and kicked, but he just dug his callused fingers in harder and dragged her towards the anchorpoint. “Oh, are you afraid of me?”

“Get off her!” shouted Toto, and he grabbed the ghost from behind, trying to pull him off Sam. Releasing Sam's ankle, the ghost cackled. He let himself fall backwards, pushing Toto towards the anchorpoint.

“Toto!” yelled the others, but the middle-aged man had already vanished. Toto fell hard against the street sign.

“Where is it?” asked Emily, staring around.

“Sam?” asked Toto, trying to sit up. “Has it gone?”

Sam shook her head. “No, it, she...” The ghost had finally materialised in her true form: a woman with wispy blonde hair, bloodshot eyes, and a loose, white dress. Around her neck, she'd knotted a scarf so tightly that her skin had a blue tinge, and Sam could make out the marks choked and clawed into her throat.

Sam stared, numb.

The ghost paused, eyeing her curiously, then sidestepped thrice to the left and thrice to the right. Then she opened her mouth, and the unconscious drunk who'd collapsed against the wall earlier did the same.

“You can see me,” said the ghost, through the possessed drunk.

Sam nodded, keeping her eyes on the ghost. “We've met before.”

The ghost blinked, but she didn't get much further, because at that moment someone shouted from the end of the street.

“Move! Delilah's out of control!”

Something bright flashed past, scorching Sam's cheek. The somethingsmacked into the street sign with a bang like a gunshot. Behind Sam, someone swore.

“No, don't attach yourself-- what are you doing? No, get _off_ it!”

Sam saw a miniature missile reverse and affix two telescopic clamps to both ends of the street sign. With a yank, the missile wrenched the sign from the wall, hovered for a moment, then zoomed off into the distance, smashing through the windows of a line of parked cars, and setting off their alarms. The ghost stared in horror, then flew after it.

“Huh,” said the voice behind Sam. “I have no idea where that's gone. Er, you guys might want to move. That sign's already been nicked once.”

Dazed, Sam turned and saw a young, handsome man with floppy auburn hair, wonky glasses, and a dreadful maroon sweater. He opened his mouth, maybe to make a more typical greeting, then paused as he noticed something over Sam's shoulder.

“Toto? Well, that makes things easier. We'll evade the law at my place. Come on.”

Sam barely heard him, staring after the ghost. The ghost could kill. And it was worse than that...

“Er, did you hear me?” said the man in glasses, as a woman opened her front door to inspect the ruckus. “We need to move. This is criminal damage.”

Sam glanced at Toto, who got to his feet, rubbing his shoulder. He shook his head when he saw her expression.

“It's okay,” he said, sounding completely-not-okay. He stared after the microrocket. “Seth's my cousin. Well, second cousin, but he insists on calling Lawrence 'uncle' because nobody ever knows what 'first cousin once removed' means, so, er, anyway, what I'm getting at is, if he liked to kidnap people off the street, I'd know by now.” Toto was still staring after the microrocket.

“Unless I'm really subtle about it,” said Seth. He nodded at Sam and Emily, and glanced again at the smashed cars. “Pleasure to meet you. Now can we please, _please_ go?”

They followed Seth up the street. Sam's stomach churned as she thought about the ghost. She desperately wanted to discuss it with the others, but she couldn't say anything in front of Seth. If Seth believed in ghosts, Toto surely would've mentioned it by now.

As they stepped into an unruly front garden, Emily jumped. “Th-that tree, it just _meeped_ at me!”

“Oh, it does that,” said Seth, searching his pockets for his keys.

Toto noticed something peculiar at ground level. Trying to distract himself from the ghost, he bent to take a look. “Cool.” It wasn't working; he peered closer. “Are the dandelions meant to glow?” Still not working.

“Probably not,” replied Seth. “Can't remember what I originally wanted to do with them. Mum was much better at gardening.” He found his keys at last. “Right! Come in.”


	13. Chapter 10.5: Lawrence at home

Chapter 10.5

Lawrence at home

 

 

Lawrence sighed at the receiver in his hand. Vanessa had just hung up on him; something about how she wasn't paid enough to talk to him _in_ the office, let alone out of it. He was surprised he'd caught her at all. Vanessa had been suspiciously absent recently. Some time ago, he would have worried, but now he couldn't force himself to care.

He heard quiet piano music from the drawing room. Lia must be practising. Lawrence placed the phone back on the kitchen table, next to his laptop, on which he had been looking at holiday destinations. He was fairly sure that was how being a CEO worked. The cassette from the hospital lurked under a pile of papers. After listening to it in full, he thought he needed a holiday.

Vanessa had mentioned that her latest paramour was a fellow called Kurt Burkhardt. “What a name...” muttered Lawrence, pausing his search for holidays to search for the man who was brave or foolish enough to date Vanessa. He thought the name was oddly familiar. Soon enough, he'd found out why.

“Really, Vanessa?” he muttered. He now knew why their headsets had been sabotaged.

“Lawrence?” As Amy, his wife, elbowed open the door, the sound of the piano grew louder. She staggered into the kitchen, carrying their new toaster; the box was big enough to hold a car. “Can you take the broken toaster to the recycling place?” She nodded at the old one, neglected on the counter-top.

“It's far away, and I hate driving,” said Lawrence, closing his browser. “I'll just give it to Seth.”

“You can't keep giving all our old rubbish to Seth.” Amy dropped the new toaster down on the side, and gestured at the kettle. Her hair was still damp from the shower.

Lawrence shook his head, his eyes resting on her. “He likes it; he's never complained.”

Amy poured herself a cup of tea and dropped the old toaster on the table in front of him, nearly smashing the cassette. “He's complained repeatedly.” She picked up her tea and laid her free hand on his shoulder. He held it.

“Oh, that's just for show.” He shrugged. “It'll grow on him. It contains circuits. He grumbles, but any distraction is secretly welcome.”

Amy raised her eyebrows, but she squeezed his shoulder. “Be careful not to pressure him. Remember, some of us have full time jobs.” She looked at him significantly.

Lawrence smirked. “It's fine; Vanessa more-or-less runs the company.” He laughed at her expression. “I know, I know. You're right. Even my own mother couldn't put up with me.”

She pushed his fringe over his eyes. “Oi, don't you dare play that card.” Putting her mug on the table, she pulled back the chair across from Lawrence, and sat down. She stretched out under the table to kick his feet. “How's Seth doing?”

Lawrence sighed, smile dying. “Better. Eating too little and drinking too much, but better. I'm still going to check on him, though.”

Amy nodded, touching his hand. “You're doing well.”

Lawrence grimaced and kicked her foot back. “Let's go on holiday.”

Amy shook her head. “I have far too much work, sorry.” She shifted in the chair, getting comfortable. “Only if you're ill. Do you want to go on your own.?”

Lawrence shook his head. “No, and I'm not ill. It's okay.”

Amy gave his hand a squeeze; he nearly gripped it back. “Can you talk to Lia for me?” she asked. “Her form tutor rang; she skipped a detention. Again. Why he bothers setting them, I don't know.”

Lawrence nodded, listening to the piano for a moment. Bit rushed. “Do you want to come with me to Seth's?”

Amy shook her head again. “I think you can talk more honestly if I'm not there.” She glanced at the photo of Clara pinned to the fridge.

Lawrence stood up and touched her hair. “I love you.”

“I should think so,” said Amy.

He picked his pile of papers up. There were too many, and they nearly slipped out of his hands, but he staggered forward, Amy caught them, and together they avoided a paperpocalypse.

“You’re getting pretty into this whole ghost-hunting thing,” said Amy, holding out the papers. “Y’know, I _would_ like to see it, sometime.”

“There’s not much to see.” He took the papers from her, with a nod of thanks. “Sam’s the only one who can see them.”

“Aw.” Amy took a swig of tea. “Well, maybe it’s for the best. Remember how she screamed? Whatever she saw...”

“Yes.” Lawrence, too, remembered how Sam had screamed when she saw Flora hanging in the park; that scream had cut through him like a saw through bone. He didn't like to remember it; he thought he'd handled it badly and should have been more sympathetic. Even now, she must feel raw and painfully isolated. He knew he should be doing more to help. But he felt too numb and too tired.He wished he'd met her at any other time. It would have been fascinating. But now, there was just too much to say, and his words tangled and stuck in his throat. This past year had been awful. He struggled to talk to anyone outside of his family, and anything emotional was impossible. He remembered Clara, talking fast, snowflakes in her hair, and he remembered the telephone call from Seth that had changed everything, and he felt like he was dead.


	14. Chapter 11: Revelation

Chapter 11

Revelation

 

After more detailed introductions and a short explanation about the rocket (“it’s unpredictable”), Seth offered to arrange the team's lift home. They waited in his living room while he made the call from the hallway (“I can't get reception in here; there’s interference from the almost-perpetual-motion machine. Watch out for the sofa; one end bites, and I can never remember which.”).

As she crumpled onto the settee, Sam gazed at the underwater landscape projected onto every surface. She tried to find the words to start. A loud whirring drew her attention to the far corner of the room, where something complicated and coat-hanger-y spun around on the spot, shooting off multicoloured sparks.

“Your cousin has far too much money,” said Emily.

Toto fidgeted with the corner of a colour-changing cushion. “He'd probably agree with you there. It's inheritance.”

Emily frowned, but before she could speak, Sam started talking.

“Guys, what do we do?”

“The ghost?” asked Toto.

Sam nodded, talking quickly to get everything out before Seth returned. “So, we've got ourselves a killer ghost, that can take the body of anyone she's murdered and travel as far as she likes from her anchorpoint. A. Killer. Ghost. But it's even worse than that; she--” The sofa picked that moment to attempt to devour Sam.

After the others had managed to pull her free from the cavernous jaws of the upholstery, they all sat on the floor instead.

“Guys, listen,” Sam started again, but she was interrupted by a cheery voice from the doorway.

“I've called Lawrence,” said Seth, “and as luck would have it, he’s already on his way; he wants me to fix his toaster. Reckon I should get it to burn sordid images into his bread?”

Toto stared at him, horror-struck. “ _Lawrence_? But-- he-- Seth, we didn't have permission to hunt this ghost! He'll guess why we're here together! Why did you call _him_?

Seth looked blank, sitting down on the arm of the sofa. “Who else was I going to call?”

“I thought you meant your sister!”

“Wait,” interrupted Sam. “You know about ghosts?”

“Of course he knows about ghosts.” Toto jigged his leg up and down anxiously. “He's the one who provided the creepy machine, and the cameras, and our headsets--”

“Oh,” said Seth, “that reminds me, they're fixed now; would you like them back? I-- hang on, Uncle Lawrence took my cameras? Oh, I _knew_ it!”

Toto groaned. “Lawrence is going to _kill_ me...”

“Never mind that!” snapped Sam. “Guys, that ghost, it was--”

“GREETINGS, TOBIAS AURELIUS.”

Sam's words froze on her lips as a frail-looking robot with large eyes and a permanently affronted expression creaked into the room.

“WOULD YOU LIKE SOME COFFEE?”

Toto fiddled with his collar. “Er, no, it's fine.”

“AND YOU, OVERLORD?”

“No, thanks,” said Seth.

“AND YOU, UNKNOWN MALE?”

Sam folded her arms, glaring, as the robot turned towards her. She shook her head viciously.

“AND YOU, UNKNOWN MALE?” the robot repeated.

“Cofeebot's not too great with body-language,” Seth said helpfully.

“AND Y--”

“No!” snapped Sam.

Coffeebot turned to Emily. Before it could speak, however, someone knocked at the door.

“Oh, that'll be Lawrence.” Seth bounced to his feet.

Toto shuffled like a disposable videogame character whose escape from the shotgun-toting player had been blocked by six rows of flammable barrels.

“LAWRENCE WILL DESIRE A CAFFEINATED BEVERAGE.”

“Observant little thing, aren't you? Good Coffeebot. Come on, off you go, now.” Seth guided the robot towards the kitchen.

Emily sighed wistfully; she’d fancied a latte. Then again, she reasoned, maybe it was better this way. She kept finding herself trembling as her thoughts darted to the ghost, and there were other, whirling, raw emotions which had more to do with the way Toto’s cousin had wasted thousands of pounds on _robots_. Caffeine might be a bad idea. Toto, meanwhile, quivered on the living room floor as Seth and Lawrence talked on the doorstep. He wasn’t sure which frightened him more: murderous ghosts, or Lawrence. He clutched his Jayne hat.

Gazing around the room for some means of escape, Sam noticed the photos on the mantelpiece. Something about the nearest one looked familiar. Frowning, she got up and walked over, her eyes widening as she recognised the man giving a jaunty wave from his frame.

“But that's Alexander _Valence_!” She turned to the others in shock. Toto shook his head.

“Sam, you shouldn't believe everything you read in the papers.”

“But--”

“He didn't do it.” Toto's tone was final. “Reckon we can escape through the window? Or will it be electrified? Or musical? I mean, it _is_ Seth...”

Before Sam could reply, the living room door swung open. Lawrence stepped in, wearing a power suit and an icy expression.

He looked at Toto.

Toto looked at him.

They looked at each other.

“Yes, be scared,” said Lawrence.

Coffeebot returned with Lawrence's espresso. Lawrence lifted the cup, watching Toto. He kept his face free from emotion. They all knew what that meant.

“F-father, we-”

“Do you think I'm interested in listening to anything you have to say?”

“... No...” Toto mumbled.

“What twit taught you to answer rhetorical questions?” Lawrence took another sip. “If you’re wondering whether or not I’ve told your mother about this-- wait and see.”

Toto gulped.

“Risking your life, Tobias. _Risking your life_. Well.”

“I’m sorry--”

“No you’re not.” Lawrence smiled at him. “You will be.”

Agonised on Toto’s behalf, Sam watched a projected dolphin shimmer across the wall opposite. The scene's serenity was spoiled by the machine whirring in the corner; the noise filled the room, grating on her ears. She glanced at her teammates. Heads bowed, neither met her gaze. She forced herself to look back up at Lawrence. Generally, it was wise to _avoid_ talking to him when he was contemplating filicide, especially when 'talking' involved bearing bad news. She knew, however, that her particular bad news mattered more.

“Director,” she started, “the ghost--”

“Be quiet.”

“The ghost in the alley,” she persisted, forcing herself to keep eye contact. “Director, it was--”

“Samantha, I'm warning you-”

“Lawrence, it was Flora!” The words tumbled out in a rush, and this time he didn't interrupt; instead, he gave a start and bit his tongue as scalding coffee splashed onto his fingers. As he swore, Sam pressed on, “Lawrence, it was definitely her. She didn't recognise me, but it was her. When we sent her on before- well, I mean, we thought we did, didn't we? But it was her, I'm sure of it.”

“Nonsense,” said Lawrence crisply, setting his coffee down and inspecting his burned hand. Sam's pulse quickened as she felt a flash of irritation. How many times was she going to be told that her reality was 'nonsense'?

“I know what I saw.” She folded her arms. “It was her. She's still out there. Whatever we've been doing, we've been doing it wrong.” As she spoke, she felt her throat tighten and her eyes prickle; saying it aloud for the first time gave the thought a new weight. What if _every_ ghost they'd evicted-- only a few, yes, but that was still a frightening thought-- was out there now, memoryless and murderous? Flora hadn't been violent when they'd 'sent her on' the first time. Was the change in her personality their fault? Either way, they'd wasted their time, thinking they were helping when, in fact, their efforts were completely useless. The risks, Toto's injuries, all their nightmares- all for nothing.

Maybe the Director saw her thoughts on her face, because when he spoke again, his voice was a little softer. “Samantha,” he said, “I've no doubt that you _thought_ you saw Flora. Remember, though, you were only in contact with her for less than an hour, half an hour, if that. After five months, you wouldn't retain a photographic memory of her appearance. Perhaps this ghost bears some resemblance to Flora, but that's no reason to jump to conclusions-- especially distressing conclusions.”

“I know what I saw,” Sam repeated, but Lawrence wasn't listening as he motioned to the team. They followed him out in subdued silence. Toto reached for Sam's hand, and she took his, wishing that it made a difference. She knew he wanted to comfort her, but she reckoned that he believed his father. Emily's face was inscrutable. Seth had vanished, although she could hear mysterious bangs and crashes coming from above.

“I brought him a pet,” Lawrence explained as he opened the front door, “well, I told him that if he ever wanted his cameras back, he could get on with fixing my toaster. Get in the car.”

They trudged out to the BMW. Sam expected Lawrence to lay into them on the drive home, but he stayed silent, preoccupied. Since she didn’t want to risk drawing his attention, she too kept quiet, staring out of the window as rain dribbled down the glass. Ghosts could kill. Ghosts _had_ killed, and it might be her fault. Toto had curled up to her left, eyes closed; she wanted to grab him and whimper into the crook of his neck, but he didn’t even _believe_ her. Emily’s head was bowed; Sam saw her turning her scratched old mobile over in her hands. After a little while, Sam saw her hand go up to her cheek, so she turned back to the window to give Emily her privacy.

When Sam got home, she wanted to throw herself down on her bed and howl, releasing the tears that she'd kept pent up all the way through the drive home, but teatime scuppered _that_ plan. Instead, she struggled her way through a plate of slimy pasta that tasted of nothing and stuck in her throat, hiding her mouth in her glass of orange juice to avoid conversation. She tried not to think about any of the things that mattered most, about her friends, about her failure.

She'd nearly got through the meal when her mother turned to her.

“Don't forget, your sweet little _gentleman-friend_ will be here at twelve tomorrow. Make sure you go to bed at a decent hour; I think it will be a long afternoon.”

Sam wondered whether she should just say that she and Toto had broken up. She could be openly upset that way, and it wasn't like she'd be going out to send on any more ghosts, not when it didn't bloody work. She suddenly wanted to punch something. With a mumble of assent, she excused herself from the table, pushed past her little sister, and raced up to her room, feeling the first tears pool up. She just managed to lock her bedroom door before she started to sob. No ghosts rescued meant no more missions, no more missions meant no more _Gate to Tomorrow,_ and _that_ meant no more friends.

She caught sight of herself in her bedroom mirror and winced. Her face was all red and puffy and streaming, and she was ugly enough on a good day-- that thought made her cry harder. When she found that the light hurt her eyes, she took off her jacket, scrubbed her teeth so hard it hurt (why did toothpaste taste so nasty with salt-water?) smacked the light switch and curled up in bed, even though it was only nine o'clock. She was cold and grotty, and still wearing the day's clothes, but she didn't care; she was too _tired_ to care. Closing her eyes, she wished her thoughts would stop returning to ghosts. Every new line of thought would suddenly, unexpectedly, lead back to ghosts, ghosts, and the question which wouldn't leave her in peace-- what was she going to _do_?

 


	15. Chapter 12: Ghost Stories

 

Chapter 12

Ghost Stories

 

Rolling over for the millionth time that night, Sam reckoned that it must be at least 5am. She wondered if she was too tired to sleep or some other crap like that. It'd be just her luck. Trying to distract herself from thoughts centring on 'sleep', she shivered; _now_ her thoughts kept flitting back to the ghost-girl being hit by the car. The images played and replayed in her mind, looping faster and faster, until she thought she would be sick. She thought about sitting up; that might help with the nausea, but dammit, she was too tired.

Instead, she took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. It didn't help. Ghosts, ghosts, too many ghosts, slicing through each other in her brain. She gave a limp laugh as she suddenly realised that for the first time since she was ten, she was actually _afraid_ of ghosts. That took her back. Ten, and sitting in a scratchy bunk bed, listening to ghost stories on a school trip.

They had gone to some 'outdoor pursuits centre' in the Yorkshire Dales, which was one of the teachers' excuse for a holiday home: a _cozy_ building with a musty smell, a grubby kitchen and an infestation of mice. For all their moaning, Sam and the others didn't mind much; sharing a room with fourteen other girls was the perfect excuse to eat as many sweets and drink as much caffeine as possible, refusing to sleep. When the teachers realised that any attempt to discipline the girls just resulted in more helpless giggling, they gave it up as a bad job, got the gin out of the utility cupboard, and left them to it.

Night-time in the countryside was darker and quieter than night-time in the city, so it wasn't long before they got started on ghost stories. Sam sat on the edge of her top bunk, dangling her legs over the side, as people took turns. There were a couple of rubbish tales, one that was kind of scary, but was about a zombie, not a ghost, and then there was Amna's story which had given Sam nightmares for years.

“Once,” Amna had said, sitting cross-legged on the floor, “there was a girl called Lucy. For her tenth birthday, Lucy got a strange parcel. When she opened it, she found it was a beautiful china doll, with long blonde ringlets and a red velvet dress. She thanked her parents-”

“That's crap,” Candice interrupted. “If my parents got me some _doll_ for my birthday, I'd make them take it back to the shop and give me cash.”

“Lucy was a nice girl,” Amna continued amidst giggles, “and she thanked her parents for spending their _hard-earned wages_ on her beautiful doll, because her father was very ill with a disease that could make his head explode at any moment, and they could've spent the money on his medication.”

Amna helped herself to a handful of sweets as the others laughed. She continued, “When Lucy thanked her parents, though, they were confused. They told her that they didn't buy her the doll. Lucy looked for a gift tag, but there wasn't one. A complete mystery.

“Although the doll was pretty, Lucy found it scared her; it had big, dead eyes, like marbles, and a small smirk on its closed lips. She put it on her bookshelf. It didn't look right next to her favourite teddybear, or any other toy that she loved.

“From the day Lucy got the doll, her luck suddenly got worse. She always seemed to be tripping up or failing at her homework or upsetting her friends, and everyone who was close to her kept getting sick. Her favourite teacher resigned. One day, after her pen had leaked everywhere, ruining the coat her parents _had_ bought her for her birthday, she came home only to find her favourite teddybear drenched in the same colour ink. She was furious. She guessed her little brother had done it, and she was about to go downstairs and beat him up, when she noticed that the doll had ink around its mouth.

“Unnerved, she put the doll in the cupboard. Then she went to bed. The next morning, she woke up to see the doll sitting in its usual spot on her bookshelf. It looked like it was smiling.

“Lucy asked her parents and her brother if they'd moved the doll; they said they hadn't. She didn't want to believe them; what other explanation could there be? So that night, she put the doll in her cupboard again.

“The next morning, she rolled over to find the doll was lying _right next to her_.”

Sam shuddered, gripping the duvet tight. Everyone held their breath, silent, as Amna continued.

“Lucy was terrified. She grabbed the doll and ran downstairs. As she reached the bottom of the steps, the doll seemed to tug on her arm, and suddenly she lost her footing and crashed down to the floor.

“She knew it was no accident.

“Lucy put the doll in the airing cupboard. She piled boxes, blankets, and all the other old junk she could find on top of it, as much as she could. Then she closed the door.

“When she woke up the next morning...”

Everyone tensed.

“There was nothing there. It looked like the doll had stayed put.” Amna paused to eat another sweet. “That day, Lucy had much better luck than she'd been used to recently. She came top in a spelling test, and more importantly, her friends made up with her. She was on her way home, feeling really happy, when she heard a scream and a crash from the direction of her house.

“She ran all the way back. When she got there, she saw a lorry in her front garden. The driver had lost control and had smashed into her front door, narrowly missing her mother who was washing the windows at the time. The driver couldn't explain how it had happened, and the lorry seemed fine when they examined it. Lucy started to panic. She _knew_ it was the doll. Sure enough, when she went inside, the first thing she saw was the doll lying on the floor in front of the airing cupboard.

“Its mouth was stretched open in a wide grin, baring sharp teeth. Its lips were the brown-red of dried blood. Flaking and rotten.”

“Lucy forced herself to pick up the doll, and ran out of the house with it. A force started to pull her towards the road, but she resisted it and she managed to get over to the wheelie bin, open it and drop the doll inside. As she closed the lid, she was sure she could hear an angry rattle comingfrom inside.

“That night, just as she was drifting off to sleep, she heard the front door. She froze, listening hard. She thought she could hear a scraping sound coming from the stairs. Should she get up and look? She was just about to when she heard a high-pitched little girl's voice singing...

“' _Lucy, I'm on the first step..._ ' There was another scraping sound, a little closer. _'Lucy, I'm on the second step. Lucy, I'm going to get you. Lucyyyy...'_ Lucy hid under her covers, shaking with fear.”

Sam clenched her hands into fists, feeling her nails carving grooves into her palms. The wind howled outside.

“ _'Lucy, I'm on the top step'_ ,” Amna continued, “ _'Lucy, I'm on the landing. Lucyyy...'_ Lucy heard footsteps padding towards her room. She squeezed her eyes shut tight, praying that her door wouldn't open. She was so scared that she didn't notice when the footsteps stopped.

“Everything was silent,” Amna whispered. The girls leaned forward, listening. “Even Lucy's clock seemed to stop ticking.” Amna paused. “Then Lucy heard a voice...

“' _LUCY!'_ screamed Amna, and everyone jumped. Sam squeaked as she nearly fell off the bunkbed, scrambling to regain her balance. Her heart pounded as Amna continued, “' _Lucy!'_ crowed the doll. ' _Your brother's dead!'._

_“_ Lucy didn't sleep a wink, and the next morning, her parents burst into her room, sobbing that her brother was dead in his bed, stabbed with a knife.” Amna sped up. “Lucy tried to tell them that it was the doll, but nobody would listen to her. They thought she was in shock, so they sent her up to her room, locking her door. No sooner was she in there than she heard a high-pitched voice singing just outside.

“' _Lucy, I'm in the hallway. Lucy, I see your parents. Lucy, I'm going to get you. Lucyyy...'_ Lucy grabbed her door handle, rattling it as hard as she could, but it wouldn't budge. She heard two short, sharp screams and thuds, and she knew that the doll had killed her parents.

_“'Lucy, I'm in the hallway.'_ Lucy heard feet padding up the carpet. _'Lucy, I'm by your bedroom.'_ She heard a scraping at the door. _'Lucy, I'm going to get you.'_ The door slowly creaked open. _'Lucyyyy... YOU'RE DEAD!'”_ Amna shouted. They all jumped again, and this time Sam really did fall off her bunk. _That_ broke the spell, and everyone fell about.

Sam winced, remembering. She'd sprained her ankle, ruining the trip; she'd had to sit in the minibus while everyone else went caving. Worse, she'd had nightmares all week about a whole host of creepy-looking, murderous china dolls. She'd be just starting to drift off when she'd hear them: “ _Sammy, I'm on the first step; Sammy, I'm on the second step, Sammyyy..._ ”, coming up the stairs, scraping against the bannister--

Sam suddenly sat up. That scraping sound wasn't just memory. She strained her ears, listening, trying to calm down by reminding herself that murderous dolls were _not_ real, and she wasn't ten any more; she was sixteen, in her own house, perfectly safe, and the fear that gripped her was pointless. She was probably just imagining the noise. What would be on her stairs at three in the morning? No, she was imagining it; she had to be, unless of course it was a ghost, although a ghost wouldn't make a noise-- unless it was a ghost that could turn into a human, like Flora, out for revenge. There was _definitely_ a scraping sound coming from the stairs. Sam listened harder, quaking-- was that the sound of _breathing_?

The fear spread through her chest like ice through water, her eyes wet. She tried to lie back down, and pull the covers up over her head, because she was too tired to run or fight, and if she was going to die, she didn't want to see it happen, but her body wouldn't listen, and she remained stuck there, crying in terror. Outside her room, a little girl stifled a giggle. Trying not to scream, Sam bit her cheek so hard she drew blood, and yanked the sheets up.

She heard her door creak open, and suddenly she felt angry. Was this how she was going to lose, after everything she'd been through? Quietly cowering beneath her duvet as a ghost stripped the flesh from her bones? No! She'd spit in death's eye, and see how it liked _that_!

Sam yanked the duvet down.

The little girl was looming over her, brandishing a bloodied knife.

As Sam threw herself back, somehow falling _into_ her mattress, her morning alarm screamed at her to wake up.

Sam lifted her head off her pillow. Heart still hammering, she felt weary relief. Dammit, she really should be used to the nightmares by now. She let out a weak laugh and reached over to her phone to turn off the alarm. Her hand struck something hard; she glanced down and froze.

There was a knife buried in her mattress, right up to the hilt. A flowery gift tag was tied around the handle with lace. Sam saw it bore a message:

_“Morning! Your little sister is_ adorable _!”_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	16. Chapter 13: Dread

 

Chapter 13

Dread

 

Emily awoke uncomfortably on Sunday morning, dragged from nightmares of carcrashes and shattering glass. A cold draft blew in through the crack in her window, freezing one exposed knee, and a bedspring poked into her side. As she shifted, she felt something scrape against her neck; too much pressure to ignore, but too little to feel comfortable. Grumbling, she stretched a hand up and took hold of the thing, keeping her eyes closed against the cool morning light. She then opened her lids a fraction, as she realised the 'thing' was a piece of crumpled up paper-- had her Mum left her a note? Emily felt fear stir in her chest.

Opening her eyes fully, she realised that the piece of paper was attached to something, a ribbon, going... up? She blinked and tipped her head back to look.

A red balloon.

Emily's fingers shook as she picked up and smoothed out the piece of paper, trying to keep calm. There was a message in swirly, delicate handwriting:

_'Wake up, sleepyhead! Your boyfriend's_ delicious _!'_

Emily stared blankly at the piece of paper for a few seconds, looked back at the balloon, then stumbled out of bed. She tipped her bag upside down; her mobile fell out, and she grabbed it, stabbing at the buttons with trembling fingers. Gripping her bed for support, she lifted the phone to her ear.

No reply. Raph's answerphone.

She was halfway to the door before she realised that she was still wearing her nighty. With a soft sob, she flung her wardrobe open and pulled some jeans on, along with a jumper and her coat. Then she saw her bra mocking her on the floor, so with mounting panic, she took the coat off and shoved on the bra on top of her jumper, before pulling the coat back on again. She figured nobody would be able to tell if she kept the coat buttoned.

Once she’d left the flat, Emily half-walked, half-ran to the bus stop, moving as fast as she dared, given the frost underfoot. She tried to convince herself that Raph would be okay. He _always_ turned his phone off. No need to panic. The ghost was just teasing her. He'd be fine; she'd just go and check because, well, if he _wasn't_ fine, she had to know, because however much she grumbled about him, and however much they fought, and however much he drove her up the bloody wall, she-- she didn't want him to not be fine.

Emily reached the stop just in time, dashing up the steps of the waiting bus. She fumbled in her pocket for the right change for so long that she thought the driver might kick her off again, but eventually she found the fare, and she hurried over to a window seat. Huddling down, she hugged herself tight, watching the condensation drip down the glass as the engine juddered and the brakes hissed. She realised that she couldn't get the bus home from school on Friday if she wanted to have enough money for her lunches. Then she supposed that it didn't really matter, not compared to Raph's _life_. Thinking like that made her hands tremble, so she forced her mind to focus on trivialities as she got closer and closer to his house. There was no sense in working herself up into a frenzy.

Nonetheless, she'd bitten her nails down the quick by the time she reached her destination.

 

*

 

Toto strolled down the pavement, hands in pockets, whistling. It may have taken nearly an hour, but he'd _finally_ escaped his family's efforts to 'dress' him. Apparently, Sam's parents would shoot him on sight if he turned up on their doorstep in his Jayne hat. The usual oversized woolly jumper and frayed jeans were out of the question, too. _'Bridget sees messy clothes as the hallmark of privilege'_ , Lawrence had insisted, and Toto had decided to just take his word for it; Toto tended not to notice what people wore unless it referred to fandom, flashed (in either sense), or squawked, and in fact, the only exception to this general principle was Sam's tendency to wear shorts. Still, it made sense to make a good impression, and he could go without the cuddly jumper for a day if it meant that Sam's parents would actually let him within five miles of their house.

Toto was secretly nervous. When he'd reminded Lawrence that he'd arranged to meet the Burbanks that day, Lawrence hadn't had a problem with it, and that bothered Toto, because he was supposed to be grounded for the foreseeable future. Sure, he found it impossible to believe that Sam's mum could be scarier than _his_ mum in a bad mood (the third time Amy had caught Raph skiving school to play videogames, she’d dropped his memory card into the garden pond), but he still felt wrong-footed.

He crossed the road and started down the path that led through the park: a shortcut to Sam's house. Even though she lived within five minutes' walking distance, he'd never visited her at home before, and he was curious to see her in her natural habitat. Leaves crunched under his feet, stiff with frost. He could smell a trace of woodsmoke in the air. _Winter._ He stopped at a tired-looking tree, placing a hand against the bark. Three months ago, Flora had apparently hung from these same branches that now glittered with ice.

Toto closed his eyes. He found it so strange to think that there was a whole spectral world out there, brushing against his fingertips, that he couldn't see. A different reality. That was one of the things that fascinated him so much about the brain-- if every person's perceived reality was unique to that person, then just imagine the number of virtual worlds overlapping and splitting off! Not to mention computers and animal minds. It made his head spin. There was a sadness about it, too; every person's memories and experiences were locked off, available to them alone. He would never know what it felt like to be someone else. He wondered if the realm of consciousness was another universe in the physical sense, and the thought interested him, although he had a niggling suspicion that Seth would have howled in almost-physical pain. Oh well, it was still fun to think about.

He trailed a finger up the bark, remembering Sam's words the day before. He didn't know what to believe. On the one hand, it felt rude to challenge her when he couldn't even _see_ ghosts. Who was he to tell Sam what she'd witnessed? On the other hand, if she were right, the consequences were grim. He _wanted_ to believe that she'd just made a mistake, as Lawrence had insisted, but he knew that what he wanted to believe had no bearing on the truth.

Shivering, Toto glanced down as the spare family mobile buzzed in his pocket. It was a text from his sister, Lia:

_“Hi, handsome! This isn't actually Aurelia; this is the friendly alley ghost who's just slit her throat-- oops! I suggest you call an ambulance... or a funeral director. I got quite carried away and she's ever so messy. ;)”_

Toto turned and ran. He heard a shout behind him, but he couldn’t make out the words. Suddenly, his right foot slipped and skidded, and before he knew what was happening he had fallen flat on his back, winded.

“Running in this weather? You young muppet.” An old man with a dog helped Toto to his feet. “You want to be more careful, son.”

“Y-yeah, sorry, thanks.” Toto started off again, hobbling as fast as he could. His whole body ached.

“Take care of your bones!” the man shouted after him. “Get to my age, they don’t heal!”

Toto didn’t hear him. His head was full of static. Lia couldn’t be dead, she couldn’t just die, she _couldn’t_. Focusing on the park gateway, he desperately clung to the hope that the ghost was just messing with him. Best not to think, just keep going, wait until he got home before he let himself panic. Except he was already panicking, or at least his body was trembling, and shivers kept running down his back, and he wanted to cry. He felt a childish sense of indignation-- the ghost was mad at _him_ , so why did it have to hurt Lia? It wasn’t _fair_.

He reached the park gateposts and stumbled through. His house lay up ahead, silent in the cold, but in his head he could already hear screams.


	17. Chapter 14: Jo

Chapter 14

Jo

 

Sam shot out of her room and down the hallway. She felt detached from her body. Her legs wouldn't obey her, wouldn't move fast enough; her sister was dead, and it was all her fault, Jo was dead and it was all her fault, all her fault, she--

Sam turned the corner and smacked into her dad. The washing basket went flying.

“Whoops! Silly Sam, what--”

“Dad, where's Jo?!”

Sam's dad looked nonplussed. “She's been in her room for the last half hour, tidying. Why the sudden curiosity?” He misread Sam's shocked expression. “Yes, that's right, we managed to get her to tidy up. The little girl from across the road knocked on for her this morning, so we told her she couldn't play out until her bedroom carpet was visible again.”

 

*

 

As Emily dashed across the park on the way to Raph's house, she stumbled, her arms flailing. She caught herself, thrusting a hand out against a nearby tree, and ran on. Now that she was so close, she couldn't keep calm.

At the edge of the trees, she reached a clearing lined with benches. She stopped running and stared.

Raph was sitting less than a hundred yards away, sketchpad in hand. As Emily's fists unclenched, fingers going limp at her sides, he glanced up with a sudden intuition, started, then nodded at her.

 

 

*

 

Toto threw open his front door and almost crashed into his sister, who had just bent to pick up the post. She leapt back and straightened up, giving him an odd look.

“What's up, squirt? Forget your Lou Bega mixtape?”

Toto knew he should act annoyed, but he felt more like crying and hugging her. “Are you really alright?”

As Lia narrowed her eyes in suspicious confusion, flipping her hair over her shoulder, Toto's phone buzzed a second time.

 

*

 

“There's a little girl on our street?” Sam asked.

Her dad frowned, puzzled. “Yes, didn't you know? Apparently, they've just moved in, so she wants to make friends-- but I'm _sure_ she said she'd met you!”

“What does she look like?” Sam felt dread ball up in the pit of her stomach.

“Er, let's see...” Sam's dad picked up some socks that had fled the washing basket. “Brown hair, ringlets-- and she was very self-contained, that struck me... rather pale eyes- Sam?”

Sam rushed down the landing and burst into her sister's room.

It was empty.

Her sister's favourite plastic pterosaur still lay on her blanket, wings curled around its body like dead leaves. Sam picked it up, gripping it so tightly that its teeth cut marks into her palm. Barely breathing, she sank onto the end of Jo's bed, the pterosaur's crest stabbing into her cheek as she put her head in her hands.

 

*

 

Emily walked over, trying to hide the mix of feelings that struggled with each other in her chest. She wanted to _slap_ him. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to cry, and she also felt like laughing and doing a dance.

“Emmy? This is a pleasant surprise.”

She settled for touching his shoulder, hiding a rush of frustration. Why did he have to make himself talk like that?It was so artificial _._ Not artistic, not graceful: _irritating_. “You've been drawing?”

He reached up and stroked her hand. “Mmm. I originally intended to do the trees, but then I saw a girl with eyes like ocean mist-”

Emily started to roll her own eyes, then her breath caught as she noticed the figure on Raph's page. She stared down at the pencil sketches. The ghost girl smiled back.

 

*

 

“Why are _you_ in my room?”

Sam's head jerked up. Her sister was standing in the doorway, hands on hips.

“Jo!” Sam jumped up, took a couple of steps over, then realised she had no idea what to say.

“You're weird,” said Jo, after a long pause.

“Wh-where were you?”

“Loo.” Jo shrugged. “And you're _really_ weird. Hey!” She noticed something as she stepped in. “You messed up my blanket! Straighten it. I want to play out.”

Sam felt the fear return. Even though her sister was safe for the time being, there was no telling when the ghost might harm her. One thing was for sure, though: until Sam had a clue what to do, there was no way her little sister was going anywhere _near_ that ghost. Question was, how was she going to convince Jo not to play with the other girl?

She frowned for a moment, and then she had a fantastic idea...

 

*

 

“Your phone was off,” Emily said, struggling with a lump in her throat.

“Naturally,” Raph replied. He pushed his asymmetrical fringe out of his eyes.. “I tend to turn it off when I'm drawing, lest 'the klaxon cry scare off the timid muse', so to speak. I--”

“I was so worried about you,” Emily whispered, and she turned away, starting back across the grass, trying not to cry.

Raph called after her in alarm; she gabbled something about being in a rush and broke into a run. She'd barely reached the trees, however, when a ball of paper bounced off her head. For a moment, she thought Raph had chucked it at her, but then she realised that it had come from above.

“Open it,” said a little girl's voice, giggling. Emily spun around, but there was no-one in sight. Keeping the paper at arm's length, she lifted it, unfolded it with the tips of her fingers, and read its message:

_“Teehee, ooh, I know, I am SUCH a tease! But I wouldn't leave him alone if I were you. I AM EXTREMELY MURDEROUS. DO NOT FORGET THIS VERY IMPORTANT POINT. THERE IS NOTHING I LIKE MORE THAN MURDERING EXCEPT MURDERING MORE. You've only got one day left together before I rip the flesh from his bones. Make the most of it!”_

 

*

 

Toto's shorter message read:

_“HAHAHA. =D You have 1 day. :3 <3 xxx LOL”_

 

_*_

 

“Jo,” said Sam, “listen. Come and sit down here.” She patted the duvet. “I need to tell you something, but you have to promise to keep it to yourself, okay?”

“Nope.” Jo sat down next to Sam.

Sam sighed. She supposed that would have to do. “Right, well, that little girl-- she's not really a little girl. Or rather, she _is,_ but she's also a serial killer. Her favourite victims are other little girls. She likes to tie them up by the ankles, and then she gets out a pair of scissors-- not like your little safety scissors, no, these are like the kitchen scissors, only sharper and bigger, the size of-- of-- of a dolphin, and she goes snip! Snip! Snip! First she cuts off your hair. Then she cuts off your fingers, one by one, and _then_ she cuts off your head. And she feeds it to a cat. If you go out to 'play' with her, that's going to happen to you.”

Jo studied Sam's face for a moment before she spoke. “How stupid do you think I am?” she said at last. “I'm seven _and_ _three months_.”

“Right then, well, if you go and try to play with her, _I'll_ cut off your hair and your fingers and your head.”

“I'm gonna tell mum on you!” said Jo, jumping up off the bed with glee.

“You have no evidence,” said Sam quickly.

“Come on,” said Jo, shrugging. “We both know who she's going to believe. Remember, I'm _seven._ ”

“But-- but-- but if it worked like that, then you could just make things up and say I'd done stuff when I hadn't!”

Jo frowned, pondering. “Hm, you're right. I hadn't thought of that. Interesting...”

Sam wanted to scream. “Don't you--” she broke off as the doorbell rang. The sisters looked at each other for a second, before hurtling out of the room and towards the stairs.

 

 


	18. Chapter 15: A meeting

Chapter 15

A Meeting

 

Sam tripped over the washing basket her dad had left at the foot of the stairs, and smacked her nose on the carpet, as her sister opened the front door.

“Oh!” Jo squeaked. Sam scrambled to her feet and shoved her out of the way. She stuck her chin up, ready to face the ghost. Then she blinked as she realised that it wasn't a ghost of any variety.

“Hey.” Toto grinned. “Can I come in?”

Sam nodded numbly. For once in his life, Toto was wearing clothes that fit. She thought they looked weird on him; he wore some kind of suit-thing with some kind of scarf-tie-thing and some kind of handkerchief-thing (Sam was a fashion expert). She couldn't tear her gaze away from his forearms; his wrists looked like they'd snap in a breeze.

“You're scarily skinny,” Sam said, stepping to the side so Toto could enter. He shrugged, about to reply, when he noticed Jo.

“Oh wow! Hello!” He bent down so that their faces were level. “What's your name?”

Jo scrutinised him. “Are you Sam's boyfriend, then?”

“I, um, yeah,” said Toto, with a quick glance at Sam. He noticed how similar the sisters looked, though mini-Sam had darker skin and curlier hair. He wondered how to bring up the ghost's threat. First, he needed to talk to Sam in private. How to distract mini-Sam?

Jo's curious expression shifted into a knowing one. “I think you should dump her.”

Sam felt her mouth fall open.

Toto laughed awkwardly. “Oh, do you? Why's that?” He was curious despite himself.

Jo beamed. She skipped over to the stairs, wrapped her hand around the end of the bannister, and then swung from it lazily. “You can do much better.”

“She's such a cow!” exclaimed Sam.

Jo gasped. “I'm telling Mum on you!”

“Hey,” Toto interrupted, thinking of his own sister. “I bet you can't fit in that washing basket.” He pointed. Jo stuck her chin out.

“I _can_.”

“Nah, I don't believe you.” Toto shook his head. “In that teeny, _tiny_ washing basket? Not a chance. You're nearly as big as me.”

“I'm not falling for _that_ ,” said Jo.

Toto laughed. “You're just saying that because you can't do it.” He pictured the ghost-girl, giggling, with a knife to his sister's throat. He focused on his breathing. If he gave up and panicked, Lia would definitely die.

“Watch.” Jo hopped down from the stairs and strode toward the basket; Toto smiled.

“By the way, if you do it-- and I won't believe it until I see it-- you're not allowed to make a sound until you get out again. Otherwise, you lose.” He remembered Lia playing tricks on him when they were little. For years, he'd believed that a mermaid named Miranda lived in their drain.

“Easy-peasy,” said Jo, tipping out all the clothes and putting one foot in the washing basket.

“And you have to put the lid on.”

“Fine.” Jo's voice was muffled as she disappeared inside the basket. Toto carefully placed the lid as Sam slipped over to the front door and slid the top bolt across. That way, she figured, her sister would have to come into the sitting room to talk to their parents if she wanted to get out. Sam would be able to stop her then. Hopefully. Toto tapped her shoulder, trying not to laugh.

“I think she's just realised she's stuck,” he whispered as the washing basket gave a distressed shake.

“How did you think of that?” Sam asked, impressed.

“Mum and Lawrence's favourite parenting technique.” They headed for the sitting room. “It's funny; we saw through 'I bet you diabolical kids can't stay quiet all evening' in _seconds_ , but 'I bet you diabolical kids can't stay quiet all evening _in a washing basket_ '-- that kept us under control for years. Right up 'til Raph rolled down thirteen stairs in the washing basket. Nearly broke his neck.”

They entered the sitting room; Sam's parents looked surprised to see them.

“You're early,” said Bridget coolly, looking Toto up and down. “We agreed on twelve o'clock.”

Toto fiddled with his collar. He'd expected to be alone with Sam. “Um, yeah, um, I was anxious to see Sam, I guess.” He forced himself to keep eye-contact, though Bridget's eyes were so dark that he couldn't tell if she was looking at him or not.

“Such enthusiasm.”

“Hey, I make up for it with skill,” said Toto, automatically.

Nobody laughed.

“I'll get the salad out,” said Tim.

Toto looked out of the window at a puddle forming outside, and considered drowning himself in it. He'd felt this way on so many occasions; he remembered incurring his nursery school teacher's wrath for swearing. That had been the first time he'd noticed that his family was weird. With _normal_ people, he never knew he was crossing the line, until it was too late. He was sick of having to work much harder than everyone else to fit in, especially on days like this, when he was distracted and just wanted to talk on autopilot.

It didn't help that all he knew of the Burbanks came from Sam (“I think my Mum might actually be the absolute worst mother in the whole entire world, I'm not even kidding.”) and Lawrence (“Bridget settled.”). Toto wanted more data. He knew he shouldn't care about this right now, but he couldn't help wanting to be liked. He wondered if there were some way to get a signal to Sam. He wished he'd thought to bring a pen; then he could have written a message on his napkin.

Bridget crossed over to the table and sat down. Sam and Toto took their cues from her.

“So,” continued Bridget, folding her long arms and leaning forward in her seat, “you aren't _sure_ about whether or not you want to be romantically involved with our daughter, but you still think it's acceptable to keep her out all night and have her lie to us about it?”

Sam winced. Her mum certainly wasn't wasting any time. She glanced at Toto. To her surprise, he looked calm.

“I can explain,” he said. “I think there's been a misunderstanding. Um, I know this sounds cliched, but it's not quite what you think.” As he thought about how to signal Sam, he noted how Sam's parents described it as him keeping her out, rather than her choice to stay out. He knew exactly what his parents would have had to say about that, but he let it slide. Hopefully, the quicker he reassured Bridget, the quicker she'd leave him and Sam alone, so they could work out what to do about the ghost.

Bridget snorted, pouring herself a cup of tea. “Go on,” she said. She didn't offer the others the teapot, and it was out of Sam's reach, so Sam accepted that she would just have to stare at it wistfully. She felt like she was wasting valuable time, when she should be doing something else, to protect Jo-- but she had no idea what. How could you protect from someone who could walk through walls and kill you with a touch? Sam wanted to bargain with Flora, _beg_ her, but Sam didn't even know where Flora was. So, instead, she sat there, staring at the teapot.

“Well,” said Toto, “in a nutshell, we went out to see the sunrise together. Neither of us wanted to go out alone at five in the morning, so we arranged for Sam to stay over at mine.” As he spoke, he remembered Lawrence laughing hysterically at the cover story, but Toto actually thought it was quite respectable.

Bridget turned to Sam. “And why am I hearing this for the first time _now_?”

“Erm, er...” Sam wished Toto had warned her about the godawful cover story.

“Please, Ms. Burbank,” said Toto. “Sam gets... er... _funny_ about romantic stuff. Embarrassed, I guess. I mean, look, she's already gone red.”

Sam mumbled obligingly into her collar.

“That's also why I didn't tell my family that we'd started seeing each other; they'd've teased us rotten. Not that it matters now...” He gave himself a shake; he'd been worrying about the ghost again. “But yeah,” he continued with the story, “so I said Sam was just there as a friend, and she stayed in one of the spare rooms.” (“... With the door open, and a chaperone,” Lawrence had added, eyebrow-raised. “If Bridget believes that, I'll give you her job.”)

“Sounds suspicious,” said Bridget.

Toto shrugged. “It's the truth. Sorry. I admit that we didn't _just_ keep quiet out of embarrassment; I know you guys don't let Sam have sleepovers on school nights, so I'm sorry about _that_ \-- but we weren't... er, what I mean is, we've only been dating for a few weeks.” He looked at the clock. Every second, Lia's time ticked away. Outside, somewhere in the rain, the ghost waited.

Tim came in with the salad. “The roast is nearly ready. Don't worry, Tobias; it's not...” There was a loud thump from the hall. Moments later, a dishevelled Jo appeared in the doorway.

“Mum! Mum! Sam called me a cow!”

Bridget frowned. “When was this?”

“An hour ago!”

Sam caught Toto's eye. They reckoned it had been closer to five minutes.

Bridget got up and stalked over to Jo, her high ponytail swishing. “Oh, and you only felt the need to mention it now, hmm? Come here.” Jo shuffled towards Bridget, avoiding Bridget’s eyes and twiddling with a loose thread. Bridget inspected her. “The head's still attached... as are the arms... and the legs... two feet... looks like it didn't do _much_ damage.”

Sam swung back in her chair, cracking her knuckles.

“And you- good lord, what on Earth?!” Bridget stared at something out in the hallway, over Jo's shoulder. “Josephine, would you mind explaining why the entire contents of the washing basket are strewn all over the carpet?”

Jo mumbled a reply.

Bridget cupped her ear with her hand. “I'm sorry?”

“I was sitting in it,” Jo whispered. Bridget glared with such fury that Sam thought singe marks might appear on her sister's face.

“Oh, what a useful endeavour. You should be _very_ proud of yourself. Right, Josephine, go to your room!”

Jo rushed out, bottom lip wobbling. Sam was amused, but a glance at Toto told her he felt guilty. She sighed. One day he'd realise that her sister was actually evil, and then he wouldn't feel bad. Tim went out to pick up the washing, leaving Sam, Bridget, and Toto in the sitting room. All in all, Sam couldn't believe how well things had turned out-- until she remembered the ghost. Bridget turned to her.

“You are not off the hook, young madam.”


	19. Chapter 16: Lunch

 

 

Chapter 16

Lunch

 

With a proud flourish, Sam's dad set a dish down in the middle of the table. “Ta-daa!”

Sam stared at it, momentarily distracted from Flora. “What the heck's _that_?”

“Nut roast!” said Tim. As Sam looked on in horror, he started to carve out servings. “I've never actually made it before-- only heard the legends-- but I think it turned out quite well.” He handed Sam her plate.

“But-- but where's the _food_?” wailed Sam.

“Samantha.” Bridget fixed her with a sharp look, taking her plate from Tim with a nod. “You do _know_ that your boyfriend's a vegetarian, don't you?”

Sam whipped round and shot Toto an accusing glare.

He laughed awkwardly. “I'm guessing that Lawrence talks about us at work?” He'd been hoping both of Sam's parents would leave the room to get the food.

Bridget sniffed with disapproval. “Do you always call your father by his first name?”

“Well, it feels weird to use his last!”

Nobody laughed.

“Uh... thanks...” Toto took his plate from Tim, his gaze focused on the table cloth. “I mean... we've always called him Lawrence.” He quickly started on his meal. For a few minutes, they all ate in silence, tension thick as the mushroom sauce that had just marked its territory on Toto's sleeve.

“I like your jacket,” said Tim kindly, handing him a napkin. “It’s a nice jacket, isn’t it, Bridget?”

“It's a tidy cut,” Bridget conceded.

Toto scrubbed away. “Thanks.” He looked relieved. “I hope I can clean this off; it's my brother's...”

“You're wearing someone else's clothes to a date,” said Bridget flatly.

“Uh...”

There was a sudden galumphing noise from upstairs. This was followed by several loud bangs and an evil chuckle. Sam's head jerked up, but she relaxed as Jo's voice drifted down the stairs. Her sister was singing something about a big fat mean lawyer who'd lost her shoes. Sam looked out of the window just in time to see one of her mother's Gucci sandals drop into the hedge.

“Oh, for God's sake!” Bridget threw down her napkin. “Excuse me,” she added to Toto. They heard her feet pound up the stairs, and moments later two voices were having a row.

“You have to admire their energy,” said Sam's dad, as they heard what sounded like a cat attempting to strangle itself with a set of bagpipes. Toto smiled, though he really felt more like curling up in a ball and unobtrusively rolling down a well. He'd never be able to face nut roast again.

Sam looked at the ceiling uneasily. “She won't let Jo play out, will she?”

Tim shook his head, gesturing at the rain hammering the window ledge. “Not in this. She'd catch her death.”

Sam flinched, then widened her eyes at Toto, trying to signal to him.

“Are you okay?” asked Toto.

“Hm?” Tim asked him. “Is something the matter?”

“Um, it was Sam, she just--”

 _“What_?” said Sam, hinting to Toto to shut up.

“Your eyes, they just...” Toto gave an apologetic shrug. “They just bugged.”

Sam glared at him.

“So...” Toto cottoned on at last. “Maybe you were doing eye-exercises?”

“Are they even a thing?” asked Sam, despite herself. “I mean, yeah, sure, that was it. I have an eye-exercise tape, from my friend, Flora.”

“Ah,” said Toto.

“I'd be careful with that,” said Tim. “You could do more damage than good, messing around with your eyesight. You're already so lucky-- I can't see an inch without these!” He gestured at his glasses. “I think it's wise to take these health fads with a pinch of salt. Unless the health fad advocates eating a pinch of salt, in which case, it's definitely best not to overdo--”

“Yeah, okay,” interrupted Sam. “I'll give the exercise tape back to Flora tomorrow, when I see her, because she wants to come over to meet Jo.”

“Ah,” said Toto.

“That's considerate of her.” Tim smiled. “I often think it's quite hard, with such an age-difference between the two of you-- you can't really play together like siblings who are closer in age-- I suppose that's a benefit of your family situation, Toto?”

“Um, yes,” said Toto, replaying the conversation to see if he'd missed any other hints from Sam.

“Yes, it's not ideal,” Tim continued. “We--”

“Hey,” said Sam, “I know, why don't me and Toto go outside and pick up mum's shoes for her?”

“Oh, no,” said Tim. “Don't worry about that, you'd get soaked. You just--”

He was interrupted by Sam's mum shouting from upstairs. “Sam! Sam! Get up here, _now_!”

“Coming,” Sam yelled back, and she left the sitting room, Toto in tow. They'd just reached the foot of the stairs when the doorbell rang.

“Sam, get up here; don't answer the door!” shouted Bridget. Sam ignored her. For a few seconds she couldn't tug it open, until she remembered that she'd fastened the top bolt earlier. Feeling foolish, she slid the bolt across and swung the door open at last.

“Emmy!” Sam gawped; Emily's coat was splattered with mud, her eyes were red and puffy, and her face was soaked with a mix of tears and rainwater. Her hair, usually glossy as fresh ink, looked like a child's scribble. Sam guiltily held in laughter. She stepped back, out of the rain, which was indulging a personal vendetta against all living things.

“Um, hello--”Emily started. She was interrupted by Sam's mother's yell.

“Samantha Alicia Burbank, you will get your bottom up here _right now_!”

“Hello,” said Sam cheerfully. “Do come in!”

Emily nodded and did so, too distracted to care about the ruckus. Sam realised then that something must be very wrong.

Toto also studied Emily, although he opted not to gawp like Sam. He noticed that she was trembling, turning a small, crumpled piece of paper over and over in her hands. Bad news? He reached over to take it from her, but she jerked her hand away, shaking her head.

“It's... Sam, I have to talk to you about something. I didn't know where to go; I must have stayed in the park for nearly an hour, and then I remembered you lived here, so...” Emily stared through an open door. “Sam, is that a _conservatory_?”

Sam nodded, gesturing for Emily to speed it up; Bridget sounded like she was about to combust.

“I-- I... Sam, sorry; is that a widescreen TV? And, and a real coalfireplace? And that stereo system... I thought only Raph’s family... goodness...”

Sam fought to stop herself tearing her (or rather, Emily's) hair out in frustration. “Emily, get to the point. My Mum's going to explode in a minute, and I was only joking when I invited you in.”

“Sam,” Toto intervened, “why don't you go and see your Mum, and we'll wait for you together?” He turned to Emily, who looked like she was trying not to cry. “You can tell me what's wrong,” he said gently.

Sam was about to reply when her mother shouted so loud Sam thought she must have severed her vocal cords in the process. “Samantha! I want to know why there is a bloody knife in your room!”

“Er, no, on second thought, ” said Sam, backing away from the stairs. “I think she's going to want to talk to me for a while. Might make more sense if we, er, go back in the sitting room-- maybe the front room instead, actually-- and just sort of lock ourselves in-- until she cools off a bit-- that might be--” she froze as they heard Bridget's feet clatter at the top of the stairs. “Out! Now!”

The three hurtled out of the front door and down the garden path, dashing across a couple of streets and plunging into the park before Bridget could catch Sam. Only once they were safely hidden in the shadow of a cluster of trees did they stop, gasping for breath.

“A kn-knife?” said Emily, clutching her chest.

Sam nodded, wheezing. “The ghost said hello.” She flopped against a tree.

Toto's eyes widened, and he grabbed her hand. “It tried to stab you?”

“Not exactly,” said Sam, and she quickly explained.

“Shouldn't we head back, to make sure Jo doesn't go out?” Emily asked when Sam had finished, scraping sodden tendrils of hair out of her eyes.

Sam shook her head. “Nah, there's no way they'll let her out in this.” She gestured up at the black clouds above, and got a face full of rain for her trouble. “Anyway, that's scary, so distract me. What did you want to talk about?”

“Um...” Emily hugged herself in a vain attempt to keep warm. “I don't think it'll be much of a distraction-- the ghost threatened someone close to me, too,”

Sam swore. “Who?”

Emily's glance darted to Toto. “My Mum.” Her voice trembled.

Toto put a hand on Emily’s shoulder; Sam felt a lonely pang (where was the hand on _her_ shoulder?) and hid it. Toto continued to comfort Emily. “There, there... Right, well, I was wondering how I was going to bring it up, but that makes things easier-- one of my sisters was threatened, too.” He closed his eyes for a moment.

Sam stared at him. “You've seemed fine all afternoon!”

Toto shrugged. “Well, the way I see it, there are two options. Number one, the ghost is planning to kill Lia, and there's nothing I can do about it. If that's the case, and the ghost is just sadistic, then that means it wants to see me get frightened and upset. I won't give it the satisfaction. Number two, the ghost is planning to have a chat with us, and it's just enjoying drawing the threat out first-- in which case there's no point in getting upset, and again, I won't give it the satisfaction of seeing me rattled.”

“Clever boy, aren't you?” said a familiar voice. The team whipped around and saw the ghost-girl hanging upside-down from a nearby branch, glittery skirts tucked into her cotton socks. She smiled at them and dropped to the ground, flipping in mid-air so that she landed on her feet with a squelch. “Well, score one for the pipsqueak. You pinched something of mine, and I want it back. Hand it over to me by this time tomorrow, and maybe I won't kill your loved ones. Maybe.” She winked. Sam, Toto, and Emily glanced at each other.

“What do you mean, we 'stole' something from you?”

The ghost-girl heaved a melodramatic sigh. “I _think_ you know. Remember the hospital?”

Toto cocked his head to one side. “You were there?”

The ghost shrugged and kicked a nearby tree. “Or perhaps he's not so clever after all. No, of course I wasn't there; I just _somehow_ knew you'd all been to a hospital in the recent past and stolen a cassette, because your daily lives are _that_ fascinating, and I am _that_ interested in them.”

Emily frowned. “The cassette? That's what this is about?”

“Don't think too fast; you might haemorrhage.” The girl broke a piece of bark off the tree, black against her disturbingly new, snow-fairy dress. “Yes, the cassette! You stole it, I tracked you down, and now you can damn well give it back, or I'll rip every inch of skin off your--”

“We don't have the cassette,” Emily cut in quickly, before the ghost could get too carried away.

The girl shrugged again. “Fine, in that case there's no reason to wait until tomorrow; might as well go and kill your dearest now. There's no time like the--”

“Wait!” said Sam; the ghost giggled. Sam took a deep breath. “We don't have it now, but we _can_ get it. And...” she hesitated. “Flora,” she said at last. “Flora, we know it's you. Do you remember us?”

For an instant, a glimmer of recognition flashed in the ghost-girl's eyes, but then it sank away again into the foggy depths. “Flora? Wait, is that my name? _You_ know _my_ name? How does _that_ work?” She sounded genuinely curious.

“You don't remember?” said Sam.

“There's a lot I don't remember,” said the ghost bitterly. “That's why I want my cassette back; when I listen to it, I remember things. He-- the back of his head-- it doesn't matter to you; you have no use for it. I need it.” The ghost-girl started to scratch her wrist.

“If we get you your cassette back, will you promise to move onto whatever lies beyond?” asked Toto, seeing an opportunity.

The ghost-girl waved her hand airily. “Yes, yes, fine, fine. The main thing is that if you get it back for me, I won't kill anyone you're _too_ partial to. Probably. We'll meet back here, five o'clock tomorrow. Deal?”

The others glanced at each other and nodded. “Deal,” they said. They didn't think they had a choice.

The ghost skipped away.

Sam turned to Toto, gripping his arm below the elbow. “You can get the cassette, right?”

Toto nodded. “Should be easy enough. I'll just ask Lawrence.”

Emily bit her lip. “Oh dear,” she said.

Sam snorted.

“No, I mean-- it's just struck me-- we're going to have to tell the Director about this, aren't we?”

Toto nodded. “We're screwed.” He closed his eyes and exhaled, deflating.

Sam stared at her team. “What? No way.” She shook her head. “We'll get in _so_ much trouble--”

“You don't say,” flared Emily.

“But-- but--” Sam turned to Toto in appeal.

He shook his head. “We don't know what to do,” he mumbled, unable to meet her eyes. “I don't know what Lawrence would be able to do, either, to be honest, but...”

“Exactly!” Sam pounced. “Lawrence'll be useless--”

“He has a good track record,” growled Emily.

“And anyway,” Sam continued, “think about how much you'll worry him!”

Toto fiddled with his collar, agonised.

Sam pressed on. “And-- and think about it, this is all happening because _he_ took the cassette-- the ghost might hurt him-- and either way, he'll blame himself! And right, let's say it goes wrong and someone, someone d-dies-- option one, the Director doesn't know about this, and we keep it quiet, and while okay, yeah, it still _really sucks_ , it's better than option two, where the Director _does_ know and he blames himself when-- when his own daughter is murdered!”

Toto had gone very pale. “It feels realer when you say it,” he murmured, crumpling down onto the wet grass. He started to tear distractedly at the blades. “And you're, you're right, he _would_ blame himself-- at least, _I_ would blame myself--”

“That's _you_!” snapped Emily. “I'm certain the Director would rather know than be kept in the dark. What if he finds out after-- after someone-- well, _you know--_ and then he blames himself because he thinks that if only he _knew,_ he could have worked something out?”

Toto took a shaky breath. “Then he can blame us instead.” He stopped pulling out the grass and turned his face up, looking Emily in the eye. “I think that's better. The more I think about it, the better it sounds to me.”

“See?” said Sam, rounding on Emily.

“You're both stupid!” Emily stared from one to the other, unable to believe her ears.

“Well,” said Sam, “when you're done with your tantrum, let us know.”

Emily's jaw dropped. “You, of all people--”

“Hey!” Toto interrupted. “Hey. Right, rather than fighting, we'll put it to vote. That's fair, right? So, all in favour of telling Lawrence?”

Emily's hand rose resolutely. It was the only one.

“Oh, what a surprise,” she said. “What a bloody surprise.”

“So, we're all agreed?” Toto ploughed on, with a nervous smile.

“You can still get the tape, right?” said Sam

“Yeah,” said Toto. “I might have to make something up, but it should be straightforward.”

Sam gave a nod. “In that case, ignorance is bliss.”

Emily snorted. “Why am I not surprised to hear that coming out of _your_ mouth?”

“And what's that supposed to mean?” said Sam.

“I'll leave you to work it out, or not,” Emily replied, and she stalked off.

Sam glared at her back. “Stuck-up cow.”

Toto made a non-committal noise. “She's scared.” He got up. “So am I. We've... we've really messed up...”

Sam glowered. “Well, thanks for reminding me, just in case I forgot for a moment and started thinking that oh, hey, this ghost following us is the best thing to happen in years, somewhere between sliced bread and the inter--”

Toto put his hand on her arm. “We've really messed up, and _we'll_ fix it. That's what I was going to say.” He gave her elbow a quick pat. “Right, I'm heading off home. See you tomorrow.” He glanced nervously toward his house, its roof just visible through the trees at the Westernmost edge of the park.

Sam nodded. “Don't worry. It won't be the last time you see your sister.”

“Thanks, Sam.” He'd already started walking away. Sam silently cursed her big mouth; when Toto got sarcastic, you knew you'd screwed up.

Alone, she trudged back to her front garden. She wondered if Emily would go behind their backs and tell the Director anyway. A part of her secretly hoped she _would;_ the idea of leaving all the responsibility to Lawrence grew more appealing with each step. Now that she was alone with her thoughts, her doubts pressed in on her. What if he _could_ help?

 _Don't be stupid,_ she told herself. _He doesn't even believe it was Flora. What's he meant to do, stand there in front of her, fold his arms and insist that she doesn't exist?_

She bit her thumbnail.

_Look, he can't do anything, and you'll just scare him. There are three of us, we're sixteen; we can handle it without him._

Stomach churning, she pushed on her front door handle. As her mother stormed toward her, yelling, she was almost glad of the distraction.

Almost.


	20. Chapter 17: In the Dead of Night

Seth stumbled his way to consciousness, floating to his feet as though still in a dream. Downstairs... there had been a noise downstairs... he should check... burglar...

He groaned. He was no match for a burglar; better to go back to bed than risk getting beaten up. But then all his stuff would get stolen... Yeah, but it would get stolen either way, so he might as well pick the option which didn't land him in A&E.

A shriek pierced the night air; Seth blinked, instantly wide awake. He'd never heard anything like it. Shaking, he searched for something he could use as a weapon, but all he could find on his bedside table was a grimy coffee mug. He sighed. He supposed it would have to do. No cricket bats in the house; he'd never been one for sport.

Seth crept down the stairs, half a step at a time, straining his ears for the softest whisper. Silence. As he reached the hall, he was aware of a dripping sound. Dim light framed the kitchen door, and a pool of _something_ leaked underneath it. He edged closer and then tiptoed around the puddle, wrinkling his nose at the cloying odour and holding his coffee mug at the ready. He figured he could deal at least one good blow. Important to make it count.

Holding his breath, Seth inched open the kitchen door, leaning back in case something suddenly leapt out. He could hear strange, hissing noises from the other side-- cockroaches? He didn't know why he'd suddenly have an infestation of cockroaches, but then he also didn't know what had emitted that ghastly scream, or the name of that liquid oozing under the door.

Realising he would be stuck there for the rest of the night if he didn't hurry up, he groaned, closing his eyes. The tiredness blanketed his fears a little, but it still wasn't enough. At that moment, he caught another sound. Straining his ears, he realised it was some kind of melody, and then his blood ran cold as he recognised the final, fading notes of Daisy Bell. Suddenly knowing what he would find, he threw open the kitchen door.

His beloved lay on the floor, decapitated. The head rested a few feet away, impaled on the crumpled, sparking remains of a microrocket named Delilah.

“COFFEEBOT!”


	21. Chapter 18: Hurry!

 

 

Chapter 18

Hurry!

 

Sam whipped her coat out of her locker, cursing. They still had almost two hours until the ghost's deadline, but as they had yet to acquire the cassette (“I couldn't get into Lawrence's study last night,” cried Toto. “I swear, he doesn't eat, drink, or sleep.”), they were desperate to get back to Toto's.

“Sam, you've missed a button-- Ow!”

Sam had just bopped Toto on the head. “I'll button it how I want!” She quickly undid the buttons and redid them properly. “Anyway, I wouldn't be in such a rush if you had just _got the damn cassette_! Why didn't you skive today?”

“And miss trigonometry?” Toto slammed his locker shut, pulling his coat on with his other hand.

She bopped him again; he shook his head as he pulled up his hood.

“I’m just teasing you, Sam.” They grabbed their bags and started down the corridor, almost running. “No, Lawrence locks his office before he heads off to the company building, and he takes his keys with him to work. I can only get into the room when he's at home.”

“Couldn't you just _ask_ him for the cassette?”

“I tried, but he reckons he's getting somewhere with his investigation. I think he's getting obsessed with it, actually; I heard him listening to the tape at two in the morning.”

Sam froze, despite her hurry. “He's found the boy?”

Toto shook his head. “I don't think so, but he's close. I think he's still chasing up leads. Oh! That reminds me. Amsel replied to my letter.”

He passed the folded-over page to Sam. She read it as she walked:

 

_...As for the ghosts, I'm sorry to say I cannot help you. There were many children who saw ghosts, or similar. The only person I remember was a girl who kept a diary. She is long-since dead._

_Shortly before your letter arrived, though, a man visited me. He feigned curiosity about the institution, and ghosts, but I suspected he knew far more than he would reveal. I tried to be polite, but found my patience waning with the charade. He might be valuable to you in your enquiries Unfortunately, he introduced himself only as 'Kurt', and I didn't think to ask further at the time. He had a distinctive manner of dress. I hope this is useful to you in some way._

_P.S.: Yes, your father does sound woefully insensitive, but I'm sure he loves you._

 

“Kurt...” said Sam, handing it back to Toto and speeding up. “It rings a bell, but...”

“Yeah, I thought so, too,” said Toto, as they passed the maths classroom.

“Anyway, now isn't the time,” said Sam. She almost bumped into a trio of year 7s in her rush.

Toto nodded. “Yeah. I thought it was worth showing you, just in case you had a brainwave, and...” He didn't finish the sentence. Sam knew he had been about to say that they might fail to get the cassette.

“Anyway,” Toto said quickly, “what I was getting at before was, Lawrence isn't going to let me just run off with the tape. You know that he'll never admit that you saw Flora.”

“Do you believe me?” Sam asked, her hand on the door to the stairwell.

Toto pressed his lips together for a few seconds, his smile dying. “It makes sense,” he said at last, tentatively. “The boy in the hospital and everything. I don't think Lawrence is really as dismissive as he made out, either; he's just sore because he thought _he'd_ got rid of her the first time. But that said, I really hope you're mistaken. That an acceptable response?”

Sam smiled, but before she could reply, she heard a voice booming down the corridor.

“Samantha Burbank! Where do you think you're going?” Her Maths teacher stomped toward her. “Do you, or do you not, have detention with me every evening this week?”

Sam's jaw dropped. How could she have forgotten? She turned to Toto; his expression was comparatively muted, but she recognised the horror flickering in his eyes.

“Crap,” she whispered. Not quietly enough.

“Samantha! You do _not_ speak that way to a member of staff!”

Sam turned back to her teacher, unable to look him in the eye. “Sir, sorry, Sir, right, Sir, could I maybe not do it today and then I'll do an extra week--”

“When? Your detention period is indefinite. Tending towards infinity! As you are the only person who does not do her homework, you are the person who must do the homework of all and only those people who do not do their homework, and until you work out precisely why that is going to take you a _very_ long time, you don't have a hope of leaving this building before five.”

Sam bit her thumbnail, hyper-aware of every second ticking past.

“Oh, Samantha Burbank, I hope you're ready for-- wait, come to think of it, you didn't even finish the exercises on basic algebra, did you?”

“It was hardly basic,” muttered Sam, but her teacher wasn't listening.

“Two months of work! Two months, starting right from scratch. Fine! Because let me tell you, Miss Burbank, I do not allow any pupil of mine to achieve less than a 'B' at A-Level, and if that means that your seat will have dents in it by the end of this term, so be it.”

Sam cast a helpless glance at Toto, but he looked distracted by something on his phone.

“Now, do you have your books?”

Sam nodded, wondering whether she should just make a break for it. Sure, she'd be in trouble the next day, maybe even suspended, but it wasn't like he could grab her and stop her taking off down the stairs. Given the stakes, it would be worth it...

“And your equipment?”

The biggest crowds of kids had left, so she could probably get down the steps unscathed. Even if he ran after her, she was faster, healthier, and she could probably jump down each short flight if she had to. Down forty-two steps in six jumps? Her ankles would kill, but it'd definitely be quickest...

“What about your calculator? I don't want to have to go right back to the storeroom in three minutes’ time.”

“I--” Sam started, but her phone interrupted, jingling in her pocket.

Her teacher held his hand out. “Since you're currently in detention, this counts as school hours, so I'm afraid I'm going to have to confiscate that.”

Sam stared at him. “You can't be serious.”

“Give.”

She was about to make a break for it when Toto caught her eye, a few steps away. He nodded, gesturing to her to press the 'answer' button as she handed the phone over, and mouthing the word 'loudspeaker'. Sam did so, and she and her teacher heard a distressed female voice.

“Hello? Samantha, are you there? Samantha, it's a family emergency. Samantha, answer me, are you there?”

Her teacher nervously handed her back the phone.

“H-hello?” said Sam. She didn't recognise the voice on the other end.

“Oh Samantha, my radiant angel,” said the voice. It now sounded like it was trying not to giggle; Sam quickly took it off loudspeaker. “Oh, my darling dearest daughter darling dear, come home at once. Something's happened; your sister-- your sister-- your sister's starring on 'Deal or No Deal'!” An explosion of giggles followed; Sam hoped it sounded like sobbing.

“I'm coming, Mum,” she gabbled. “I'll be right there.” She hung up quickly and forced herself to look her teacher in the eye; he gave a grudging nod.

“I hope it's nothing too serious.” He frowned. Sam felt guilty until she remembered that her alternative was letting a ghost murder her little sister. Nodding, she hurried down the corridor, fear slithering like slugs in her chest. She and Toto ran down the steps, pushed past a crowd of year sevens, darted through the automatic doors, then rushed out of the gates. Sam didn't slow until they were halfway along the street.

“Er, I take it you know who that caller was,” she said, trying to catch her breath.

“Yeah, my sister, Lia.”

“The one the ghost wants dead?”

Toto stopped abruptly. “Thanks for that.”

There was an awkward pause.

“Sorry,” mumbled Sam.

Toto shook his head. “No, forget it, I'm sorry; I'm just tense.” He started running again. “I asked her for help. She has a natural talent for skiving detentions.”

Sam nodded as they reached the corner. “What now?”

“We get the cassette, I guess.” Toto flung out a hand, grabbing the belt of her coat just in time to stop her from skipping out into traffic.

“I'd figured _that_ bit out, genius.” She shook him off, thankful but embarrassed. “How do we do it?” They ran-walked across the road. Sam accidentally showered Toto with sludge as her foot plunged into a puddle.

“One of us diverts Lawrence, the other steals it?” Toto shrugged, wincing as the splatter of icy, muddy water soaked through his trouser leg. “It's a bad plan, I know, but I think it's the best we're going to come up with under the circumstances.”

Sam nodded. “What about Emily; when's she turning up?”

“I don't know; we didn't say an exact time. She'll be early, though. She's reliable.”

Sam paused suddenly on the kerb. “Toto, do you like her?”

“Well, yeah, of course.” Toto shrugged, stopping level with her.

“That's not what I meant.” Sam shook her head, feeling her cheeks heat up, and gazed intently at her shoelaces. “Never mind.” She hurried forward.

Toto squinted at her. “Wait... Sam, she's dating my _brother_.” He ran to catch up. “Of course I don't--”

“It's just because sometimes you really give the impression--”

“That would be super weird, not to mention disloyal--”

“Like in the park, before, or when we were in the haunted hospital, and you knew she was full of BS--”

“I mean, I'd say she was like a sister, except that she's much nicer to me than Lia is--”

“And you still went along with it, and I was wondering if that was why, but it wasn't really the moment to ask--”

“Yeah, much too nice to be a sibling; a cousin, maybe. Something like that. Is that what you were hoping to hear?”

Sam shook her head, feeling like she'd just screwed up. “Never mind.”

“Right,” said Toto, feeling like he'd just screwed up. “Well. That's that.”

“That's that,” said Sam.

“Right,” said Toto.

“Okay,” said Sam.

They continued up the street, silent. Toto had butterflies. He didn't want to say anything, in case he wrecked it, so he settled for walking in step with Sam in a pleasant sort of agony.

Sam tried to push it to the back of her mind. She'd think about everything later, when they'd sorted out the ghost, and she had time to wonder about silly stuff like that. She felt ashamed of herself for bringing up such trivial rubbish at a time like this.

They reached the park, and both checked their watches at exactly the same moment.

“Still got an hour and a half left,” said Toto, laughing nervously. He looked slightly green.

“We are so screwed,” mumbled Sam. She closed her eyes for a moment, kneading her forehead with her knuckles. “Right,” she said, opening her eyes again and trying to look sure of herself. “You live five, ten minutes away, max, so if we leave ourselves ten minutes to get back here... That's a start.”

Toto nodded. He wanted to tell her that there was nothing wrong with being openly nervous and uncertain, but he reckoned she'd feel better if she thought she had him fooled. “Okay, plan: I go in, and wait by Lawrence's office. You knock on the front door. Lawrence should be the only one in at the moment, so he'll answer the door. When he goes, I steal the tape. You keep him distracted. I sneak out, with tape, and we run to the park before Lawrence notices it's missing. Emily joins us, we have a civil chat with the ghost and strike up _some_ kind of bargain, fingers crossed. Sound good?”

“No, it sounds rubbish, but it's not like there's an alternative.” She paused. “What if Lawrence locks the study door behind him before he answers the front door?”

Toto bit his lip. “Then one of us climbs up a drain and breaks a window. I guess it should be me, since it's my house.”

“Well, I'm not doing it,” said Sam.


	22. Chapter 19: Infiltration

 

 

Chapter 19

Infiltration

 

Toto gave Sam a mock-salute and crept into his house, sneaking toward his father's study. He tried to make it fun for himself; he reckoned that nothing would irritate the ghost more than him making the best of things. He could pretend he was still a little kid playing 'spy' with his siblings; 'creeping into Lawrence's study' had always ranked highly on the list of things that the Archer children had supposed that international spies liked to do. Toto felt a silly sort of pride as he remembered; he'd always been the best at it. Raph wheezed due to his asthma, and Lia's waves of white-blonde hair were visible from half a mile away.

Toto clenched his right hand into a fist, determined not to think about Lia and what might happen to her if he weren't successful. He padded across the hallway carpet and up the stairs, stretching over the creaky fifth, seventh, and twelfth steps. When he reached the upper landing, he slipped into Raphael's room, next to Lawrence's office, and waited for Sam to ring the doorbell and draw the fellow forth. Forcing himself to stay still despite his restlessness, he flicked his gaze around the room guiltily. It had been a while since Toto had ventured inside; Raph got fussy about people entering his room without permission. Toto supposed that that had something to do with the time Lawrence and Lia had hidden a jelly under Raph’s duvet. Or the time Lia had pinched Raph's diary. Or the time she'd blabbed the contents.

Toto wrinkled his nose. He could smell something cheesy; why did Raph never wash his socks? There was also something that looked horribly like a half-eaten sandwich decomposing on the edge of Raph’s desk. Toto winced at the thought of the germs. Since he couldn’t do anything about his brother’s disregard for basic hygiene, he forced himself to focus on nicer things. On the wall opposite, Raph had tacked several drawings, paintings and sketches (Toto felt a pang of envy; here was proof that artistic talent wasn’t genetic). Most of the drawings consisted of cars, or Emily, or some combination of the two, but one particular picture caught Toto's attention. Toto’s eyes widened as he realised that he recognised the figure inked in black.

Toto tiptoed over. Could Raph have seen the ghost-girl when she turned up to spy on Lia? Or possibly...

He narrowed his eyes. Emily _had_ paused before she'd said that her mum had been threatened; at the time, he'd just thought she was struggling to say it aloud, but maybe... He sighed. If his suspicions were correct, then he couldn't be angry with Emily; he understood why she'd lied, but he'd've preferred honesty. Being a nobly dishonest specimen himself, Toto adored honesty in others, especially that purple-haired brand of honesty that said exactly what it thought and felt and didn't give a damn about the consequences. He longed to have that kind of freedom sometimes, to just ignore other people's feelings for a change and speak his mind. To sulk about petty little things and let people know when they got on his nerves. In the meantime, he supposed he'd just have to live vicariously through Sam, and give a silent cheer every time she said what he was thinking.

Drifting off into Sam-themed daydreams, Toto was yanked back into reality as the doorbell chimed. He tensed, instantly alert. Any second...

He heard the study door creak open and Lawrence's swift footsteps course across the landing and down the stairs. Now!

Toto darted out of Raph's room and into Lawrence's study, sliding sideways to ensure that he didn't knock into the door and make a noise. Though he needn't have bothered, because there was somebody waiting in there.

 

*

 

“Hello, Samantha,” said Lawrence coldly, opening the door. “If you're here to ask for Tobias, he isn't back from school yet, and he's grounded anyway. Go home.” He started to shut the door. Sam stuck her foot out, panicking.

“Er, no, that's not it,” she said, wincing as her ankle started to throb. Dammit; she'd thought it had healed. “No, er, actually, I was wondering, er...” She desperately tried to think of something. “Er, how's your investigation going? The cassette, I mean; have you tracked the kid down yet?”

Lawrence shook his head, gesturing at Sam to move her foot. “If that's all--”

“No! I mean, I was also wondering, Lawrence, how are you? How's life? How--”

“Samantha, why are you trying to keep me distracted?” Lawrence's voice had a sharp edge. She squirmed, lost for words. Lawrence folded his arms. “Would I be correct to conclude that Tobias has, in fact, already arrived home, dropped off his things, and is now sneaking out again through the kitchen door as we speak?” Lawrence turned on his heel and disappeared into the house before Sam could reply.

Sam swore. She wondered about running after him and attempting to tackle him to the ground with a flying kick or something, but somehow she doubted that she had the physical strength or skill. Looking at her watch, she saw that twenty minutes had already elapsed since she and Toto had reached the park-- they now had less than an hour left before the ghost attacked. She swore again and bit the inside of her cheek, staring down the hallway in the hopes that Toto would suddenly appear, cassette in hand. This was a disaster.

 

*

 

Emily almost screamed with frustration as her bus shuddered to a halt. She was only halfway to the park, and the engine had died. There wouldn't be another bus for half an hour, so she thought it made sense to walk-- but it was cold and miserable outside. Her head felt fuzzy, too. She had a horrible feeling that she was coming down with the flu. She supposed sleep deprivation played its part; over the last couple of days, she'd been plagued by nightmares. In some, she looked on helplessly, tied to a tree, as her friends were murdered by a ghost, and in others, her mother kissed her on the forehead and said goodbye, and she wept because she knew it was final.

As the kids at the back jumped about, hurling abuse at the driver, Emily got up and inched her way forward, squeezing around the people who thought it intelligent to sit sideways on their seats, knees in the aisles. Someone yanked the emergency door open; the alarm squealed. Emily closed her eyes for a moment, feeling pain build up in the base of her skull. She wanted to go home and huddle up on the sofa, hot water bottle wrapped in her pillowcase in the cozy dark. Instead, she pushed her way to the front of the bus.

To her relief, the driver wasn't a pain about it, and he let her get off, even though _technically_ they were between stops. She started down the pavement, her bag strap pulling on her shoulder. Every few steps, the bag would knock into her side, steadily forming a bruise. She wanted to get a rucksack, but her bag had been three quid, and there were no holes in it yet.

The first spots of rain fell. She quickened her pace. Forty-five minutes left.

 

*

 

Toto stood frozen in the doorway to Lawrence's study, looking rather like a tarsier. He tried to calm himself as his mind flitted to images of Solid Snake in a roomful of exclamation-mark-bedecked marines. Alarmed eyes stared back into his.

“Hullo,” croaked Seth. Toto noticed a bottle of corrosive-looking liquid on the coffee table by Seth's seat. Seth picked the bottle up and took a swig, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and dropped the bottle back onto the table. Unfortunately, he misjudged the angle; the bottle rolled down onto the floor, and its contents started leaking into Lawrence's favourite cashmere rug.

“Aren't you teaching tomorrow?” asked Toto; Seth groaned and slumped forward.

“Don't care. Nothing matters, anyway.”

“Um...” Toto wanted to ask what was wrong and comfort his cousin, but every second that passed endangered Lia and possibly Raph (and mini-Sam, whose name he'd forgotten). “I'm sure it's not that bad.” He fiddled with his collar and took a few tentative steps into the room, casting his gaze around for the cassette. He saw lots of things that weren't cassettes.

“Coffeebot, Toto. It's dead, it's gone, and it's never coming back. Cut to ribbons, all the inside, the motherboard, everything. Bubble bath for my laptop and storage media. Coffeebot’s innards drowned in treacle.”

Toto bit his lip. He wanted to give his cousin a hug, but he'd just noticed a rectangular object peeping out from under a pile of papers on the bookshelf on the other side of the room, Lawerence's inhaler functioning as a paperweight. “You backed it up, right? So there'll be other robots.” He crossed over. “Other, better robots.”

“You don't understand. The hardware was unique-- some was illegal. _Mum_ helped me to build Coffeebot.”

As Toto straightened up, cassette in hand, he saw his cousin's shoulders shaking. That was too much.

“Oh, there, there.” He hugged Seth tight. “Don't cry.”

“What's the point?”

After an agonising few minutes, Toto managed to calm his cousin down to a hiccoughing state.

“Seth, I've got to go now, but I'll be back soon, I promise. And then maybe we'll see what you can remember about how to build Coffeebot, because I'm sure it's more than you think. Or maybe we could try a whole new project. C'mon, Seth, it'll be exciting. See this as an opportunity.”

“I miss her so much.”

Toto wished they could have had this conversation at any other time. “I know you do,” he said, glancing at his watch and gritting his teeth. “But she wouldn't want you to be sad.” Toto straightened up, giving Seth's shoulder a squeeze. He noticed a piece of paper on the table. On it was a name printed in Lawrence's microscopic handwriting. “Kurt Burkhardt... that sounds familiar...”

“He's Vanessa's latest guy.” Seth sniffled. “Though probably not for much longer. It's going to be ugly. She--”

“Mmhmm,” Toto forced himself to interrupt. “I'm sorry, Seth, I'm, um, really hungry, so I'll see you in a few minutes.”

“Hang on.” Seth shuffled to his feet. “I'm going to the kitchen anyway. Haven't eaten all day.”

Toto winced as they started down the landing. “You are going to be so sick.”

“I don't care right now,” said Seth. Toto nodded distractedly as they reached the stairs, hoping that Seth would take the hint and stop talking to him. If Lawrence caught him now, things could ( _would_ ) get hairy. He breathed a sigh of relief as he stepped onto the hall carpet. Sam stood on the front porch, shifting her weight from foot to foot. Toto was about to wave when her eyes widened and a cool voice spoke from the kitchen doorway.

“Tobias.” Lawrence stepped out of the shadows. “Care to explain what you think you're doing?”

“Hmm, now that you mention it, that's a good point,” said Seth, furrowing his eyebrows. “What _do_ you need that cassette for?”

Toto and Sam exchanged a look.

“Run!” shouted Sam.

 


	23. Chapter 20: Wait, What?

 

Chapter 20

Wait, What?

 

Upon arriving at the park, Toto and Sam were surprised to find Emily tied to a tree. One end of the rope looped around an overhanging branch, while the other end was knotted around Emily's ankle. Emily, dangling upside down, did not look too pleased about the arrangement.

“Toto, Sam, stop _staring_ and get me down!”

Sam didn't move, gawking. “What you up there for?”

“For goodness' sake!” Emily wriggled; it made no difference, except to coat the ends of her hair more evenly in mud. “Help me down! They laid a trap-- and no, I have no _idea_ why-- and I've been stuck here for quarter of a bloody hour, and--”

“Who's 'they'?” asked Sam, but before Emily could reply, a broad-shouldered, muscular man stepped out from behind a tree. For some reason, he was wearing high-heeled pirate boots, with spurs.

“A pleasure to meet you! I am the one and only Kurt Burkhardt, founder and Managing Director of _Toastthatghost!_.” He took a bow, purple suit creasing. His beaded jabot jangled. _“_ And _you_ _,_ ” Kurt said, straightening up and wagging a white-gloved finger, “have been stealing our custom.”

Sam looked like she'd just been earnestly informed that the Sun was made of the iridescent shells of sixteen billion carnivorous beetles.

“Erm, right,” she said.

“Um.” Toto glanced at his watch; only half an hour left. “Listen, could we maybe do this another time? Only right now we're kind of busy--”

“ _Toasting_ a ghost, correct?” a familiar female voice cut in from behind the same tree. A thin, veiny hand flicked out from behind the trunk, pinching a cigarette. Sam narrowed her eyes at the frosted nails.

“Hello Vanessa,” she said as the white-haired woman stepped out and over to Kurt's side. Sam saw her lipstick glistening, exactly the same shade of purple as his suit.

“Hello, kiddiewinks,” Vanessa replied, taking a drag on the cigarette. She kicked a passing squirrel; it let out an indignant, yet world-weary, squeak. “You'd better have the cassette. I barely remember the last time I was subjected to a public park, although I doremember that that was also the _first_ time I was subjected to a public park, and it neatly coincided with my parents' unfortunate demise. It's amazing what one can do with a cliff and an alibi.”

Sam folded her arms. “What do you want the cassette for?” She didn't know what was going on (though she hid her confusion), but from what she _could_ tell, Vanessa had switched sides.

Kurt Burkhardt chortled, beaded earring tinkling. “Now, now, there's no need to play the fool.” He had a light accent that Sam didn't recognise. “We've been following you for quite some time. I believe you encountered our projection device in an abandoned loony-bin quite recently?” Looking at three blank faces, Kurt sighed and continued, “Ghosts. They are invisible, are they not? Yet you all saw a green glow following you. Didn't you stop to think--”

“That was you?” Sam interrupted; Kurt nodded.

“Our team, yes. When we heard you were planning to investigate the premises, we knocked in the entrance, but we left our machine inside just in case you planned some nosiness. We were there to toast a ghost, but unfortunately for us, you drew it away when you took the cassette.”

“If you want this ghost, it's all yours,” said Sam.

“Then hand over the cassette,” said Vanessa. “Or we'll take it by force. Lawrence has paid me too little for too long, and refuses to acknowledge that I run his company for him. I'd love to injure his darling son. Or disembowel him. Maybe a nourishing injection of benzene?”

As Toto shuffled on the spot, Emily gave a limp wriggle, trying to attract attention. That didn‘t work, so she coughed loudly. “If we gave you the cassette now, how _would_ you, um, remove the ghost?”

For once, Sam didn’t find Emily’s polite scepticism grating.

Kurt laughed, his voice booming like thunder in a tunnel. “Oh, come now, come now; do you really think me so naïve? Our _liaisons_ officer, Vanessa, has told us all about your group's track record-- and, well, it's nothing to boast about, now, is it? You can hardly expect us to reveal our trade secrets to the likes of _you._ ”

Sam narrowed her eyes. Her gut (and Lawrence) had always maintained that ' _Toastthatghost!'_ were a bunch of frauds (“Just look at their name, professionalism incarnate: exactly what a grieving family wants to see.”), but she had to admit that she didn't know for sure. What if they really did know what they were doing?

“Okay...” said Sam, slowly. “That's fair-ish, but if you're so much better than us, then how come you're going after one of our ghosts?”

“You know how difficult it is to find a ghost!” Kurt exclaimed.

“I wish I did,” said Sam.

“Invisible and intangible. Silent. Subtle! Why, if Ollie-- she's our head of science; she's busy today, but perhaps another time-- if she hadn't come up with our stellar ghost-detection technique, we might never have discovered this spook at all. We--”

“Hey,” said Toto. “Look, I don't mean to interrupt, but in about twenty minutes, a murderous ghost is going to arrive, and it's getting dark, so you'll be in a lot of danger, and...”

“Goody,” said Vanessa. Toto noticed a predatory gleam in her eye. He frowned, trying to puzzle it out.

Emily suddenly gasped. “She's here!”

Sam turned, and sure enough, the ghost-girl lounged in the shadow of the trees, picking her nails. The street sign loitered on a nearby bench.

Kurt Burkhardt laughed, following Emily's gaze. “Come now, that's clearly a living human! You can't--”

“What are you doing here?” Sam asked the ghost. “You're early.”

The ghost-girl shrugged. “Got hungry. Thought I might catch a jogger.” She skipped over. “No luck on that front, but I snacked on a pensioner with a dog. I do hate dogs. Have you got my tape?”

Sam nodded. Eyes wide, Toto reached into his pocket, but Sam gave him a warning look.

“Don't give it yet,” she said. She turned to the ghost-girl. “Look, you've got to promise to move on, or at least to not kill anyone from now on. And-- and if you do, then we'll track you down, and we'll smash that tape to pieces. Get it?”

The ghost-girl wasn't listening. Instead, she had her eyes on Burkhardt, her head cocked to the side. “Hmm...” she said, tapping her finger on her chin. “You're one of that lot who gave me the pretty balloon, aren't you? You all got ever so excited when I took it! I suppose you couldn't see me. How quaint.”

Burkhardt frowned in confusion as the ghost-girl continued, her face half-shadowed in the evening dark.

“I’ve always liked balloons. They have a lazy grace, you know? Anyway, you might not be a jogger, but you wish to take my cassette-- and after I've gone to all this effort to track it! And all this talk of 'removing' me, without ever once consulting me on the matter. I don't take kindly to that.”

Sam's eyes widened. “Don't kill him!” Before she could finish, the little girl had vanished, leaving Flora, tall and willowy, standing in her place.

Burkhardt stared at what looked, to him, like an empty patch of grass. “What--”

“Run!” shouted Sam, as Flora glided forward. “Vanessa, tell him!”

Vanessa smiled and patted Kurt Burkhardt's bald head. “There's nothing to be afraid of, Kurt. We all know that ghosts are hopelessly weak. This lot are just trying to scare you off because they want the ghost all to themselves. The child you saw was a hologram, a projection.”

Sam, Toto, and Emily stared at Vanessa. Flora's ghost licked her lips. Kurt Burkhardt paused for a moment and then started to laugh, hands on his hips.

“And to think, I nearly fell for it. Honestly, you--”

“Mr. Burkhardt, Kurt, please, get away,” said Sam again as Flora drifted over to him. As she said his name, something clicked. Amsel's letter suddenly made sense. She heard Toto gasp, and she realised they'd had the same thought.

_Kurt_ was Flora's son.

No wonder he'd been investigating! And no wonder he'd founded _Toastthatghost_! Sam shouted to Flora, but it was too late. A thick, dead branch levitated, hovered over Kurt's head for a second, and then came down with a sickening 'crack!'. Kurt fell and didn't get up.

Vanessa adjusted her hat and turned away. “That'll teach you to cheat on me.” She stalked off.

Toto ran to Kurt, but he'd barely taken two steps when another branch rose. He dodged back just as it swiped at the place his head had been. As he dodged, he realised in horror that he'd overbalanced; he fell hard. Something dropped out of his pocket, but he didn't see what as he curled up to protect himself, branches striking his arms and legs, mud in his eyes.

Sam took her chance to undo the knot around Emily's ankle. Emily dropped down onto the grass. Sam kept an eye on Flora at all times, although the ghost didn't seem interested in them. Instead, her attention was fixed on something lying on the ground near Toto. After a couple of seconds, Flora streamed over and lifted the object.

“Crap,” said Sam as she recognised the cassette.

The ghost squinted at it for a moment, then stared around wildly. Her gaze snapped onto Sam. In a moment, she had transformed back into human form.

“How do I play it?” asked the ghost-girl, tapping her foot.

Sam tried to keep calm despite the ghost's rising impatience. “Y-you'll need a cassette player--”

“Where can I get one?”

Sam paused, wondering herself. “Erm, an electronics store, I guess--”

“I want one now!”

“Th-there's one in my bag,” said Emily. Sam gave her an odd look; Emily's cheeks went pink. “That's why I was late,” she explained. “I went home to pick it up, and then came back here. I thought-- I thought this might happen. Well, not _this--_ ” She gestured at Kurt, and gave a trembling laugh. “Oh God, Sam, I think I'm going to be sick--”

Sam took a step back.

“Never mind all that,” snapped the ghost girl. “Get the player.”

Sam nodded, starting to feel sick herself. She stumbled over to Emily's bag and took out the cassette player; the ghost dashed to her side and tore it from her hands.

“Gimme!” The little girl slid the tape inside and pressed a button, cradling the player to her chest. “Ahhhh, then after this I think I’ll go on a celebratory massacre. Thanks for the help.”

Sam's jaw dropped. “You can't do that!”

“Says who?” said the ghost.

“You _said--_ ” started Sam, but the ghost shushed her, squinting down at the cassette player, before jabbing it with a finger.

It continued to play only static.

As the seconds, and then minutes, ticked on, the ghost-girl's expression darkened. She tried rewinding the tape. She tried fast-forwarding the tape. She tried playing it in the second slot. All to no avail; someone had wiped it.

“C-could it be the wrong one?” asked Emily, eyes wide.

The ghost-girl ignored her, shaking with fury. Slowly, she turned to face the team. “I remember, now. You lied to me. Your botched 'exorcism' stole my memories, and now you've taken my son. You think you can torture me, just for your fun, but you won't get away with it.” She looked at Toto, before vanishing and reappearing as Flora once more. Her anchorpoint rose into the air and flew over to him, smacking him on the shin as it landed.

“Don’t!” said Sam as Flora snaked towards her friend, who was staring, blankly, two feet to Flora's left. “Stop!” She started to run, but before she'd gone four steps, another voice interrupted her.

“Flora, leave him. I'm the one who wiped the cassette. I took your son from you.”

Lawrence stepped out.

The ghost changed direction, eyes alight with fury.

Lawrence held out a hand. “Stop. I know where he is.”


	24. Chapter 21: Results of an Investigation

 

Chapter 21

Results of an Investigation

 

Flora paused.

“If you hurt that boy,” continued Lawrence, holding eye-contact as he walked towards her, “I won't tell you a thing. I also made a copy of the cassette before wiping it. Only I know where it is. It's nearby, and I can fetch it now-- but only if you _let him go_. Do you understand?”

Flora smiled. “You are a liar.” Her lips moved, but she spoke through Burkhardt's body.

Lawrence placed a hand in his pocket, and pulled out a photo. “You had only one child. He was born premature, and you almost died during childbirth.” He held the baby-photo up for a moment, but the picture was back in his pocket before Sam could see anything distinctive. Sam guessed he didn't want Flora to notice the similarity between the photo and the man she'd just killed.

“Before that,” continued Lawrence, glancing at Kurt's body, “you modelled.” He dropped a second photo onto the grass. “Your husband was called Henry.” A third photo joined the second.

“Most of that is public record, I'm sure,” said Flora, though she didn't take her eyes off Lawrence's pocket.

“ Very well.” Lawrence made as though to pick up the photos; Kurt's body hissed at him, so he left them where they lay. “What about this...” He stopped for a second, weighing something up, then continued, “Your stepbrothers tormented you as a child. When you hid, they would find you with their dog.”

Flora froze.

“Your son caught pneumonia when he was four, and your husband blamed you, for smoking,” Lawrence said quickly, eyes flicking to Burkhardt again. “During that fight, your neighbours called the police. Your son often missed school to look after you, but it did little damage in the long run. You taught him to read and play music.” Lawrence suddenly knelt and picked up the photos, keeping eye contact. Challenging her. “These are just some of the results of my investigation. If you want more, I suggest we come to an agreement. You could be with him tomorrow.”

Flora's whole body tensed. “You really found him?”

Sam stared at Lawrence. “You really found him?!” That meant Lawrence knew the truth about Mr. Burkhardt... no wonder he was trying to distract Flora with the cassette!

Lawrence nodded at Flora, ignoring Sam. “Shall we get the cassette for you now?” His voice sounded calm, but Sam noticed that his legs were trembling.

Flora shook her head. “Why bother?” As she started to laugh, the first tears leaked. “Ah, this is a little embarrassing.” She took a faltering step toward Lawrence, her feet making no impression on the grass. “Where is he?”

Lawrence shook his head, stepping back. A twig cracked underfoot. “That information is all the leverage I have. We do this my way. Cassette first.”

Flora scrubbed her tears away with the back of her hand. “Or, how about if you don't tell me, in the next three seconds, I kill this one?” She picked up a branch and poked Toto's calf. Toto sat stock still.

Lawrence held her gaze, though his hands now shook, too. “If you do that, then never mind the next three seconds. You will _never_ know.”

“Hm,” said Flora, after a long pause. “I think I'll test that.” She knelt by Toto's side.

Sam let out a small cry, and made to run toward Toto again; Lawrence gripped her wrist and pulled her back.

“What the hell are you--” she started.

“She's not going to do it,” he muttered to Sam, then turned back to Flora. “Fine. We'll get your son, and bring him here. But I insist that we talk to him first, warn him. He won't be expecting you. We ought to give him the time to adjust.” Lawrence glanced at Toto. “Keep Tobias as a hostage, if you like, while we get your son. He lives nearby.” Lawrence gestured at the park gates in the distance.

Flora dropped the branch, and shook her head. “You must hate this brat. I like the idea of taking a hostage, but I'd rather one that wasn't offered. What about... him?” Flora transformed back into the little girl, darted behind a tree, and dragged out a man who looked more like a cactuar.

“Seth...” murmured Lawrence, just loud enough for Flora to hear.

“Yes.” she nodded. “I think he'll do nicely... though tell me-- why don't I just come with you?”

“Because you make me nervous,” said Lawrence.

Flora laughed, surprising them. “How kind of you!” She did a mock-curtsey. “Fetch him. You said he's nearby, so you have an hour. In return, I won't kill your eldest son.”

Sam blinked for a moment, confused, then realised that Flora was referring to Seth. Sam guessed the mistake made sense; Seth and Lawrence looked more alike than Toto and Lawrence. She decided not to correct Flora; Sam didn't want to give the ghost any reason not to trust them.

“Oh, he's my uncle, not my father,” Seth corrected. “Well, not actually my uncle; he's my first cousin once removed, but that's confusing for everyone. Oh, and I suppose he's my godfather, too-- but we're both atheists.”

Sam rolled her eyes. Emily sighed.

Flora glared at Lawrence. “You have some nerve,” she said. “One hour. Meet back at this tree. Go.”

They left. Seth waved sheepishly.

 

 

 

 


	25. Chapter 22: The Cassette

 

 

 

Chapter 22

The Cassette

 

“How could you just offer Toto up as a hostage, like that?” When they reached the street, Sam chased after Lawrence, who could walk much faster than her. “He's your kid!” She kept remembering the crack of the branch against Mr. Burkhardt's neck.

“I'm curious about that, too,” said Toto, quietly, behind them.

“I'm a thoroughly irresponsible parent,” said Lawrence. He gestured to them to keep going up the road, toward his car. “No, it played out how I wanted it to. I thought the quickest way to ensure Flora didn't hurt him was to make her think I didn't care about him.” He pressed his car keys; the vehicle bleeped. “She's rational enough.” He opened the door.

“What murderous ghost were you watching?” said Sam, as Emily gave a significant cough and Toto raised an eyebrow.

“My investigation--”

“And that's another thing-- you found the boy from the tape!” said Sam. “Why didn't you tell us?”

“Well, sometimes people don't want to be found,” said Lawrence. The others climbed into the backseat. He opened the driver's door. “Anyway, don't be a hypocrite.” He climbed in and shut the door, but didn't start the engine, instead turning around in his seat. “I'm evidently not the first to keep a secret. Tell me what's going on.”

“Why should we?” Sam slammed the car door shut.

Emily gave Sam an apologetic look. “This isn't the time to fight about it...” She quickly filled Lawrence in on the events of the last few days, while Sam only stopped grumbling to kick the back of his chair.

“... What a mess,” said Lawrence, when she'd finished, turning back to stare out of the window. “I wish you'd told me earlier.”

“But maybe we can delay her?” said Toto, who still sounded hurt. “If there's another cassette, and we say her son's not ready to see her yet...”

“Worth a try,” said Sam, who was trying not to choke on her panic. She patted Toto's arm, and kicked Lawrence's chair again.“Hey, are we going somewhere or not?”

Lawrence shook his head, dropping his keys on the dashboard. “Why would I copy a cassette and then wipe it? I'm amazed anyone fell for that.” He rested his chin on his hands. “I was just buying time, to learn what was going on, so we could decide our next move. I thought we could talk in private here. The cassette in the park is the only one-- and it's blank.”

The car sat in the street, still.

“ _Ugh_ ,” said Sam. “Though hey, she only wanted the cassette so she could track down her son, so not like it matters.” She glared at Lawrence. “Why did you tell her you knew where her son was? And _why_ did you have to wipe the cassette? ”

Lawrence glanced out of the window; he almost looked embarrassed. “Like I said, some people don't want to be found.”

“So, what,” said Sam, “Did you speak to him, then? Before he died?”

Lawrence turned around quickly, to face her. “What?”

“We figured it out,” said Toto, miserably. “Kurt. Kurt Burkhardt was her son, and she just k-killed him, so when she realises...”

“...We're in trouble,” finished Emily. Her fingers tensed in her lap.

Lawrence sat still for a long moment, hands on the steering wheel. “That shouldn't be a problem,” he said, at last.

“What?” said Sam. She couldn't stop replaying the instant when the branch had smacked against the base of Kurt's skull. She had been useless. She wished she could go back, stop Flora, pull him out of the way, anything. “Of course it's a problem. Kurt's dead!”

“Maybe, maybe not,” said Lawrence. “Unconscious, yes, but dead? I'm not so sure. I've been hit harder than that in a bar before, and I'm hardly a bastion of rugged masculinity. Oh, and he isn't her son.”

“How do you know that?”

Lawrence sighed. “Because I am.”

 

 

 

 

 

 


	26. Chapter 23: The Boy from the Tape

Chapter 23

The Boy from the Tape

 

“Wut,” said Sam.

“She's my mother,” said Lawrence, running his fingers through his fringe. “This isn't how I'd have chosen to divulge this information, but you might as well know. She died when I was nine.”

The silence stretched.

“Oh, is there anything else you'd like to let us know?” asked Sam. “Like, how you're also the Queen, or how, I don't know, you're secretly my mother, too?”

“I didn't know grandma killed herself,” said Toto quietly.

Lawrence adjusted the rear-view-mirror. “It's not really a secret,” he said. “I just don't like talking about it. I'll trust you to work out the reasons.” He bent to move something in the glove compartment.

Sam took a deep breath, trying to calm down. Lawrence had obviously had a lot to deal with. She remembered the way his hands had shaken as he'd looked his dead mother right in the eye--

“Hey!” said Sam, suddenly. “You can see ghosts too!”

There was an awkward pause.

“I can, yes,” said Lawrence, without turning to look at her.

Sam kicked the back of his chair with all the force she could muster; her foot scuffed the leather and her ankle twinged. “I can't _believe_ you!”

He ran his fingers through his fringe again, before starting to drum a disjointed rhythm on the steering wheel. “You're only the second person I've met who could see them-- you met the first in the hospital-- she wrote on you, I'm sure.” He cleared his throat, still drumming. “I didn't know how to talk about it. In the end, I waited too long, and it was... awkward.”

 _“_ You didn't know how to _talk_ about it?” Sam failed to keep her voice steady, remembering all the hours she'd wasted caring about the boy from the tape. “Oh, I don't know, how about 'Hey, Sam, I can see ghosts too.'?”

“Concise and informative; I should have thought of that.” The drumming stopped as his fingers tightened on steering wheel, knuckles going white. “We'll hash it out later. For now, we need to work out what we're going to do.”

Sam nearly shouted at him, but held it in. Partly because she knew they needed a plan right now, and partly because she'd noticed his voice had shaken.

“What about Mr. Burkhardt?” Emily asked.

“What about him?” His voice sounded steadier.

“You said you think he's alive?”

“I don't think we should _assume_ he's dead. From what I saw, he was hit on the head and fell over. It's hardly a certainty.” He sighed. “Besides, Flora has a terrible temper, and no force on Earth can calm her down once she gets going, but bloodthirsty? I think she's been teasing you.”

Sam frowned, though she felt a tentative quiver of relief at the thought that Kurt might not be dead after all. “Did you miss the bit where she threatened to kill, like, _everyone_?”

“I honestly think she's just enjoying playing the role of an evil ghost. She's theatrical... God, this is strange.” He shook his head. “Maybe you shouldn't listen to me. This is only just starting to feel real; I'm finding it more and more difficult to formulate a coherent sentence, to be honest.” His voice started to shake again.

“It's understandable,” said Emily, as Lawrence removed a bottle of water from the glove compartment, and took a sip that turned into a gulp. “Personally, I think we should look at the facts. She's killed at least two people: the little girl, and we also saw her turn into a man, remember? And possibly she's also killed Mr. Burkhardt. Not to mention animals. ”

“Yeah,” said Sam. “I want to know what we do if the known serial killer tries to, y'know, kill us.”

Toto didn't say anything; he seemed preoccupied.

“I was thinking,” said Emily. “What if we destroyed her anchorpoint? We thought that might get rid of ghosts, and she still seems to be attached to it... remember how frightened she was, in the alley?”

Lawrence shook his head, interrupting them. “Please, not just yet. I won't be foolish about it, but...”

Sam panicked as she heard his voice catch. “She's your mum, I guess,” she said, her eyes pleading with the others for help. Toto rummaged in his pockets.

Lawrence laughed weakly. “This is bizarre.”

“You're telling me.”

Toto leaned toward Lawrence, patting his shoulder and, with the other hand, passing him a packet of tissues. “I think you should talk to her. She wanted the cassette because it helped her to remember her son-- so go to her.”

Lawrence took the tissues but leant away. “Toto, you mean well, but please don't touch me when I'm upset. I don't like it.”

“Okay,” said Toto. By now, Sam knew that Toto only seemed this serene when he was hurt or angry. After a long moment, he shook his head. “Sorry.”

Lawrence nodded an acceptance. “As for going to Flora...” He took out a tissue. “I don't see any other choice, and part of me wants to, but so much time has passed... It feels very strange.” He wiped his eyes. “But Seth is trapped...” He folded the tissue down into a neat, tiny square. “There really isn't a choice, is there?”

A few minutes passed, silent except for the rustle of the packet of tissues, and Lawrence's shaking breaths. Then, quietly, he picked up his keys. They left the car.

 

 


	27. Chapter 24: Return

 

Chapter 24

Return

 

“Do you want these back, Toto?” said Lawrence, holding out the packet of tissues as they headed back up the street. “My face is more-or-less dry again.”

“Keep them,” said Toto. “You might need them later. You haven't seen her for almost forty years, right?”

Lawrence gave a half-shake of the head. “I've seen her ghost, of course, but she's never reacted to me or looked at me before. This is the first time it's felt like _her.”_ He shivered. “Ha, I keep feeling scared she'll be disappointed. Then I remember that she has no right.” He shook his head. “I'm being unfair.”

“Er, do you want to talk about it?” said Sam. It seemed like a generally safe thing to say, because it meant he would be talking, not her. She didn't trust herself not to put her foot in her mouth.

Emily was preoccupied with worrying about Flora. Could they really trust her not to hurt anyone?

Lawrence flicked his hand; the wrist cracked. “I just keep thinking about the institution-- I definitely _don't_ want to talk about that.”

“Fair enough,” said Sam. She wondered if it were physically possible to feel more awkward.

He sighed, his pace slowing. “This has dredged up a lot.” He shook his head, and paused, leaning against a wall, catching his breath. “I thought I didn't hold it against my father any more, but I'm not sure I'm as rational as I'd like to be.”

Sam frowned. “I dunno, I'd be furious if it was me.”

Lawrence shook his head again. “The place wasn't representative, even in those days. He really wasn't to know.”

“Yeah, but he thought you were _mad._ ” Sam felt her cheeks get hot, angry on his behalf.

Lawrence shrugged. “I _was_ a bit mad.” He started walking again, suddenly; the others almost had to run to catch up. “It runs in the family. Never mind Flora, there was mad grandfather Leofwynn; taxidermy enthusiast; we weren’t allowed to talk about him… And it wasn't just ghosts. Flora had died-- and there was a lot before that, and I wasn’t sleeping, and-- I needed _some_ kind of intervention, and I think my father meant well.”

Sam frowned. “So? You got upset, so he stuck you in that place? Overreaction, much? Your mum had just _died_. _”_

Lawrence looked down. “He loved Flora, too. And he'd thought he could care for _her_ on his own.” The last few words came out in a single breath. Lawrence stopped again, leaning against a gatepost. A cherub with a contorted face squatted on the top. Lawrence reached into his pocket, pulled out his inhaler and shook it. “At the funeral-- the person they described was unrecognisable.” He looked around, then gestured at the cherub. “They turned her into a saint, but erased her at the same time, squashing her down and moulding her into the person they'd've _liked_ her to have been-- and it made me so angry, but I couldn't explain why, and you're supposed to respect the dead-- but then, to me, it seemed more respectful to remember them as they actually were, good and bad.”

Sam nodded, wondering where he was going with this.

Lawrence pressed down on the inhaler once more before returning it to his pocket. He stared at a tabby cat, prowling across the road. “When I was a child, I actually believed Flora was some kind of witch. Her stories... God. I think it's her fault I'm afraid of maggots.”

A car sped past. Emily wondered what would happen if she could somehow get the anchorpoint into the road.

“And she cared deeply, desperately, about us,” Lawrence continued, more quietly. “But I remember the way my stomach would sink when she muttered to herself.” He slowed. “The same things, over and over, more and more agitated until you could hear her from anywhere in the house. I used to think I'd ruined her life by being born _._ When she was in that mood, if I cried, it was 'emotional blackmail'; I was the most spiteful person she had ever met. Other days, she would say I was her angel, I was her reason for living. I only questioned it after I had children of my own...”

He shook his head and started walking again, moving aside for an old woman that Toto stepped straight through.

“So she died,” Lawrence said, “and it's a vicious circle. You remember something bad. You feel guilty. You wish you didn't have to feel guilty, just for remembering facts.” He tightened his scarf, gazing at the ghost's back. “And it's patronising to just pity her, absolve her of all responsibility; ultimately she _chose_ to kill herself-- but she wasn't well.” He slowed down. “So you feel cruel. You start to hate yourself. And you're already blaming yourself and wondering where you went wrong-- you'd talked her out of it so many times before; what changed? But there are no answers, no second tries; she's dead and that's that. And _then_ you feel more angry at her. You see where I'm going?” He stopped to look at them.

Toto nodded hard. Sam found it weird to think that he had once been a kid.

“'It doesn't stop, you're trapped... _you_ want to die.” He started walking again, gesturing at the cars rushing past on the main road. “My father got scared.” Lawrence strode through a headless child without flinching. “After a small crisis, I tried to pretend I felt better. But by that point, I had horrific insomnia-- I'd lie awake all night, too tired to toss and turn, and drag myself through the day, and repeat, and repeat, and repeat.” He shuddered. “When I tried to hold onto a thought, it would weave and twist until I felt sick. Sometimes I didthrow up. I was starving myself, scarring myself; I was downright delusional at times.”

He closed his eyes, remembering. “And I couldn't stop shaking. I'd realised there was _nothing_ I could cling to forever, even my mind-- _especially_ my mind.” He paused. “So, standard existential dread, really... but loss sharpens it.”

Sam nodded, remembering the way she'd felt in the hospital.

“And there were also the ghosts, and _Flora’s_ ghost, and so much from beforehand that had been piling up and piling up-- and to top it all off, my mother was dead.” Lawrence gripped his scarf, hard. “I used to be angry at myself for failing to disguise how ill I was, but I don't know what I could have done. I said and did some very strange things. My father panicked. He thought I might take after my mother.” Lawrence shook his head. They turned the corner. The park gates loomed.

“But, really...” he murmured, “I think I just needed someone to tell me that it was okay to _hate_ her for a while.” He dug his nails into his palm.

“That’s... sad,” said Sam, looking at the floor.

“Samantha, you have a gift with language.”

Sam narrowly restrained herself from sticking a finger up.

Lawrence stopped at the entrance. “I don’t like talking about it, about her. People always either tiptoe around it, or they try to make it romantic. I don’t understand people.” He straightened up. “Anyway, never mind all that. It’s in the past. We're here.”

Sam was tempted to remind Lawrence that, in their line of work, the past refused to stay in the past, but she knew he _meant_ something more like ‘we all find this conversation hideously awkward, so let’s do ourselves a favour’.

They returned to the park. Lawrence walked briskly; Sam got the impression he was embarrassed. Toto was quiet and thoughtful, inscrutable as always. Emily kept checking her watch; Sam guessed she anxious about keeping Flora waiting and fearful of the consequences. They hurried to the tree, Lawrence readying himself.

When they reached the spot, there was just one problem: Flora and Seth had vanished.


	28. Chapter 25: Thirty Minutes Earlier...

Chapter 25

Thirty minutes earlier...

 

Thirty minutes earlier, Seth and Flora sat at opposite ends of the park bench, Mr. Burkhardt slumped on the floor nearby (Flora had hidden him in the shadow of a tree). Seth thought he should do something, but he didn't want to attract anyone's attention, in case Flora retaliated. A squirrel ran past. Seth wondered if he could or should get a pet squirrel. That made him remember Coffeebot, and he nearly started to cry. He now wished he hadn't spent the day drinking. His thoughts seemed clear, but given that he was sitting next to a dead murderer, yet he had no plan and there was a second body lying feet away, Seth suspected he couldn't trust introspection.

Next to him, Flora kicked her feet, which didn't reach the ground. Seth noticed she was wearing glittery socks to match the snow fairy dress.

“So, er,” said Seth, hoping conversation might help him sober, “What do you do? When you're not haunting people, I mean.” He shuddered. He had thought he was too numb to ever feel scared again-- until he had seen Mr. Burkhardt die.

Flora smiled. “Art, mostly. I'm interested in sculpture, especially the nature-inspired. Any scale, from architecture to jewellery. Look at this.” She pulled her hair back so he could see she was wearing a necklace, a metal swirly thing, wider at the base. “Do you like it?”

“Erm, sure.” Seth had absolutely no opinion on most art.

“You don't, but your jumper clashes with your hair, so I'm not concerned.” She smiled. “You know, I think I'm in a better place to pursue it now. When I was alive, I used to get very depressed; I felt like it wouldn't matter if I created something great; it would be ignored or denigrated, since I was a woman. I would get swallowed by the pointlessness of it all. But a dead woman-- she, at the very least, warrants an interview. What about you?”

“Physics teacher,” said Seth, distracted. Flora's words had reminded him of his own mother, and the days when she wouldn't leave the house.

“Ah, you must be very clever,” said Flora.

“I don't think so,” said Seth. He then remembered that Flora was terrifying. “I mean, thanks.”

Flora smiled. “You're afraid of me.” She smoothed down her dress. “Wise men are. That said, you needn't be afraid of me.”

“Yeah, okay,” said Seth. He watched an old man struggling with a dog, whose leash had snapped. “But I'm a hostage, right?”

“Yes, that's true.” Flora beamed at him. “But it's boring to dwell on it! Besides, since I've died, I've only actually killed two people, and one was an accident.”

Seth decided not to ask about the other one.

“Well, three, I suppose,” added Flora, thoughtfully. “If you count the mechanical monster. But that was just because it scared me. It attacked me with a duster. You should have seen it! As big as three men, with eyes that glowed like the devil's flames! And the sentient pot-plant-- that chased me into the sink. That was a horrible night. I still have nightmares.”

Seth was too drunk to realise what she was talking about. The dog broke free and ran past, barking.

Flora frowned. “If that dog comes near us, I may have to kill it. I have something of a phobia, you see.”

Seth felt his stomach turn. “Can't we just move?” He watched an old man chase after the dog, the broken end of the leash trailing behind him.

Flora patted his elbow. “If I kill it, I'll cook it for you. Don't worry, I know how.”

Seth's stomach churned harder. He remembered that he hadn't eaten _anything_ that day, though he'd drank enough for three. “Please, let's just move.”

They crossed the park and went up a small flight of steps, to a courtyard away from the fields. Hedges hid the courtyard from the main gates; Seth hoped the others would be able to find them there. He wondered if anyone had noticed Mr. Burkhardt's body, yet.

As he carefully lowered himself onto a bench, holding the side for support, Seth noticed Flora was peering at him. “Um?” he asked.

“I was just thinking,” she replied. “You're handsome, but your jumper is inside out, you stink of whisky and you keep shaking and stumbling. Is this normal for you, or has something happened?”

Seth was taken aback, but surprisingly unembarrassed-- possibly because he was less than sober, or possibly because she was a stranger, and a murderer, and he felt she couldn't judge him. “My parents died recently.” He took his glasses off, wiping them on his shirt, so he didn't have to look at her. “It was sudden,” he continued, as he dropped his glasses. “It still doesn't feel real. Mum was _murdered._ I didn't know that happened to real people.”

Flora looked thoughtful. “And your father?”

Seth bent to pick up his glasses, and nearly fell off the bench; Flora pulled him back. She was surprisingly strong. As she put his glasses back on for him, he continued, “Dad-- dad died. I mean-- he went to jail-- I'm telling this all wrong. Mum was murdered, and he pleaded innocent, but they found him guilty, and then he went to jail, and he was hanged.”

Flora frowned. “They brought the death penalty back?”

Seth shook his head. “No, I mean-- everyone thinks it's suicide, but it doesn't add up.”

Flora picked some grass and started weaving a bracelet. “How not?”

“We'd talked, made plans, he'd lodged an appeal-- and we all wanted to find out the truth. He'd never have died before mum got justice.”

She gestured for Seth to present his wrist; he did, and she threaded the bracelet onto it. He reminded her of someone. “Now, you're not just handsome, you're dashing.” She brushed some stray grasses off her skirts. “So, you're saying your father didn't kill her?”

“Of course not!” said Seth. There was a rustle of wings as several pigeons took flight in alarm.

“Then who did?” asked Flora. “You're talking too loudly, by the way.”

“I don't know,” Seth admitted, at the same volume. Flora pinched him. After yelping, he continued more quietly, “It was-- the murderer destroyed all the evidence; they just left her skeleton.”

“How peculiar,” Flora mused. “It may even have been a ghost.” She thought it had probably been Seth's father. “Though you shouldn't underestimate the living. Who were her enemies?”

“I don't think she had any enemies,” said Seth. A new line of thought occurred to him. “Unless someone was envious of her research? She was a scientist, mainly neuroscience, some computers... she even-- actually, I'd better not tell you that.” He talked faster and faster as things slotted into place. “People think I'm clever, but I'm really not, but mum was an actual genius, an actual one, I'm telling the truth. There'd be _loads_ of people who'd hate her for that!”

From the words she could decipher among the slurred syllables, Flora thought he was clutching at straws, but she didn't see the harm if it helped him sleep at night. “Intriguing. I may as well investigate. What was her name?”

“Clara.”

Flora nodded, hard. “That's who it is!” She continued, seeing Seth's confusion. “You look like someone; I was trying to remember who. Clara-- a little girl; I think she was friends with my son. The likeness is startling.” Flora gripped Seth's shoulder, hard. “Coincidence, possibly, but I don't suppose you know your mother's old friends?”

Seth shook his head. “I don't think she had many-- but she's known Uncle Lawrence since he was a child, so I could ask him if he remembers anyone.”

Flora gasped. “ _Lawrence.”_

There was a clatter as the others arrived at the foot of the courtyard steps.

“Hello,” said Lawrence. He nodded at Flora. “That seems as good a way to start as any.”


	29. Chapter 26: Reunion

Chapter 26

Reunion

 

Flora jumped to her feet, looking him up and down. Her gaze lingered on his hair, his thin face, his eyes. In the dark, the moonlight reflected off his coat, making him look more ghostly than she did. Nothing living stirred.

After a long moment, she smiled. “It is you. I should have known; you have my fantastic hair.” She took a deep breath. The trees whispered back. “You're older than I expected, much older. I thought you’d be nine years old, ten at most-- although, if I’d _thought_ about it-- I mean, I know time has passed; everything’s different; I learned to read, to use the _internet--_ but somehow I didn’t put it together.” She scratched her wrist.

“Don’t.” Lawrence shook his head. “I imagine it must be quite disconcerting, being dead.” He felt relieved that she'd taken the child's form; it was easier to talk to her, and he preferred not to see the scarf around her throat. He noticed her necklace, a delicate spiral that reminded him of a dewdrop. It looked so fragile, he half-expected the breeze to shatter it into a cloud of pale dust. From the emotion that it inspired, he could tell that it was one she'd designed herself, and he wondered about why she'd chosen to craft something that made people feel protective. She must be lonely. He recalled that his father had bought her a similar necklace, years ago. He wondered if she remembered it or not.

Flora gave a thin smile. “It hurts.” She walked over to him, her necklace glittering in the moonlight. “But it hurt more before. I have more control over my thoughts, now, and I don’t feel things so strongly.” She touched his forearm, as though checking he were real. “And I can walk through walls. Well, the novelty’s worn off now-- but it still makes me smile if I think about it.”

Lawrence nodded, steadying himself against the low wall. “I should have talked to you earlier. I'm sorry.” He stayed still.

“Is it easier for you if I look like this?” she asked.

Lawrence nodded again.

Flora paused. “I hadn't actually planned this far,” she admitted. “I suppose I had some vague idea of starting again, using my second chance to be a mother-- but it seems it's too late for that.”

Lawrence lowered himself onto the bench. “I think it is.” He cleared his throat. “It was a nice thought, though. And...” He looked at Toto, who was purposefully not staring at them. Lawrence knew the nosy little creature was listening in to every word. His lips twitched. “My life turned out okay. Since I've had children of my own, I've wished I could let you know.” The wind whipped his hair up around his face. He watched her through the strands.

Flora looked at him for a long time. “Children...” She seemed afraid to sit down at his side. “Do you hate me?”

The grass shivered in the wind. Lawrence shook his head, and found he meant it. He moved up, so she knew she was welcome to sit next to him if she wanted. “It took time,” he said, thinking that that was something of an understatement, “but eventually I realised the obvious.” He watched a magpie hop across the courtyard, pecking at shadows. “I never lived your life. I can't even imagine what it's like to have your own mind as your enemy, every day, battering at you _._ ”

He drummed his fingers on his knee, continuing, “I won't lie. I wish you'd been there-- but I don't judge you for it.” He pulled a leaf off a nearby hedge. “Now, if you'd caught me as an angry teen...”

“Ah, we're different, you and I.” She sighed, sliding down onto the seat beside him. “I always hated my parents for dying.” She touched his hair very lightly. “In fact, if I don't now, it's because I don't have it in me to feel anything as strong as hate any more. I wonder who you are.” She brushed his fringe out of his face, and peered at him for a moment. “It's probably for the best. I would have been a bad influence. All the same... I half-hope that you didn't miss me... and I half-hope that you did.” She tentatively put her hand on his. “May I haunt you?”

Lawrence did a double-take, but nodded, holding her hand. “Erm, this sounds cold, but we ought to establish boundaries.” He found it odd that, although she was wearing a strange child's face, he felt as though he could see her real face through it. He wondered if it were just his imagination. “I need more space than most-- but I agree that we should get to know each other, again, in our own time. I've...” He looked down, the pale scar still visible on the back of his right hand. “I've missed you a lot, actually.”

The wind breathed. The trees rustled. The leaves fell, dark feathers.

“Then it's settled!” Flora clapped and jumped to her feet, startling them. “You will be the world's first ghost-eviction squad with a ghost on the team!”

“Wait, what?” said Sam. Emily's head jerked up.

“I'm going to join you,” said Flora. “I don't want to crowd Lawrence, so why not start as colleagues?” She clapped again. “You need a detective; I expect I'll make a phenomenal detective. I can be invisible, I can walk through walls, the list goes on.”

“Why would we need a detective?” said Sam.

“How else will you help ghosts to move on?” said Flora. “It was charming-- by which I mean, stupid-- that you ignored the legends and tried to reinvent the wheel, but you've only caused trouble for yourselves.” She wagged her finger at Sam. “You can't cheat dead people with lies. You need to find out what they need, and then give it to them-- as with most things. You might never be able to evict some ghosts-- well, perhaps you'd be able to counsel them into wanting something different, I don't know, but I'm definitely the wrong person for _that_!” She laughed.

“Your expertise would be useful to us,” said Lawrence, still startled.

Flora patted his head. “There's also the small matter of this young gentleman's parents.” She gestured at Seth. “It sounds like quite the compelling mystery!”

Lawrence's lips tensed. “Please don't make a game of it.”

Flora smiled. “Of course, of course; Clara was dear to you. I will be very respectful! Very respectful indeed! But you must admit, it's fascinating.”

They exchanged a knowing look.

Lawrence turned to Seth. “I suppose you'd better add Flora to the 'team' section of the company website.”

“We have a _website_?” asked Sam.

“No need to mention that she's dead,” continued Lawrence. Sirens sounded in the distance. “Damn it, I knew I was forgetting something-- we should make ourselves scarce. I suspect that's the police and ambulance for Burkhardt. There's quite the crowd down there.”

Before they slipped away, Flora beamed at the uneasy faces around her. “We're going to have a wonderful time together!”


	30. Chapter 27: Moving On

 

Chapter 27

Moving on

 

“So, what do you reckon?” Toto asked Sam. The three were sitting on Sam's bed, her maths books all over the carpet. It was the first time she'd let herself see her friends in a while. “We've got a ghost in the party. Who's also my dead grandmother. That's kind of cool.”

“She called us all stupid and said her own hair was fantastic,” said Sam, passing a finished worksheet to Emily and another to Toto. “It's basically double Lawrence.”

“Awww, c'mon. What about you, Emily?”

“I'm relieved she hasn't killed everyone. That's about as far as it goes.” Emily skimmed the piece of paper and passed it back to Sam. “It looks good to me, though I think you've switched some digits round in the third question.”

“Thanks,” said Sam.

Toto shrugged. “Well, I find it phenomenally interesting. Lawrence is beginning to almost make sense to me.” He gave Sam back her maths practice with a nod and thumbs up.

“I suppose it's an amateur-psychologist's dream,” said Sam, putting the cap on her pen. “Now you just need to find your dead grandfather, too.” She glowered. “I'm sure Lawrence knows where _he_ is, if you just ask him, since he can _see ghosts_. Ugh. I can't believe he kept that secret.”

“Look what happened last time he told someone,” said Toto.

“Yeah, but--”

“And I'm an amateur _neurologist_ , thank you very much.” Toto tapped her forehead with a smile. “I'm just excited because, well, it's childish, but I always thought Lawrence didn't feel things like I did, and I'd never be able to empathise with him-- but now we have somewhere to start. When he and mum get back from their holiday, anyway.” He tapped her head again. “Talking to Flora has also been fascinating. Lawrence wasn't kidding about the stories. She could give Lia a run for her money.”

Sam swatted his hand away. “Part of your life's plan to befriend _everyone_?”

“What's up with you, Sam?” He moved back a bit. “I thought you'd be happy this week. 92%!” Toto pointed to Friday's maths test, on the corner of the desk.

“I don't want to buddy up with Flora.” said Sam. She got up before she forgot, and carefully put the test in a plastic wallet, so she could keep it for posterity. “I'm _scared_ of her. She threatened to kill my little sister. I don't care if she's Lawrence's mum, your mum, my mum-- I don't want her around.”

“Oh, good, I'm not the only one,” said Emily.

“She's a murderer,” admitted Toto. “I'm not sure how I feel about that. On the one hand, I don't think killing is ever justified. On the other, I think we should extend empathy to murderers, or we're no better than them.”

“That's a bit of a leap.” Sam sat back down on the bed. She felt the dint in the mattress from Flora's knife. Her parents hadn't said anything about Sam replacing it; her maths test had apparently given them amnesia.

Toto shrugged. “She's dead. Murdering doesn't have the same significance to her.”

“Are you _excusing_ it?” She ran a hand over the tear in her mattress.

“No, I'm just trying to see where she's coming from.” Toto sighed. “She's not going anywhere. We might as well try to get on with her.”

Sam suddenly realised that Toto might be no more pleased with the arrangement than they were, and might be forcing himself to look on the bright side.

“You're allowed to not like things,” she told him.

“Heh,” he said. “I have to admit, I'm not looking forward to tracking down Roberta again.”

All three of them groaned.

“Ugh, I'd almost forgotten about that!” said Sam. “And she was violent enough _before_!” Sam kicked the floor. “I mean, I felt so proud afterwards, even despite the whale. Now... ugh.” She cringed.

“At least Mr. Burkhardt's okay...” Toto made a last ditch attempt to see the positive.

“He came out of the coma; someone get Flora the Nobel Peace Prize.”

Emily giggled. She felt much closer to Sam these days. “I need to go. I said I'd meet Raph. It's so nice, _him being alive._ ” She left.

Toto sighed and lay back on her bed, closing his eyes. “Okay, I give up. I'm all optimism'd out.”

“It was a valiant effort,” said Sam, distracted by the length of his eyelashes. “I actually believed it, at first.” She poked his stomach; he gave a satisfying squeak. As he sat up, she added, “I thought there was something wrong with you.”

“Thanks.” Toto sighed again. “I meant what I said about learning more about father, though. Life's short... Which reminds me...” He squished up next to her. “Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah,” said Sam. He felt warm against her side. She buried her hands in her pockets, feeling her cheeks get hot. “Toto, there was something I was meaning to ask you, too. Er, I've wanted to ask you for a while, actually.”

Toto felt his palms sweat. “Oh?” he said, trying to keep his voice even. “You go first, then.”

“Right... er, promise you won't laugh...”

Toto nodded, a bit frantically. Sam took a deep breath.

“Well, I was going to ask you if you had a best friend.”

“Er...” Toto blinked. “... Oh... Okay... Are we counting Raphy and Lia?”

“Nah.”

Toto laughed awkwardly. “Why do you ask?”

Sam wriggled around, then sighed. “Ah, what the hell. Alright, well, I was just wondering where I stood with you, really. What I mean is, I sort of think of you as my best friend, but we don't really hang around much in school-- well, I'm not that close to anyone in school, so... So I was wondering.”

Toto took a deep breath, then linked his fingers through Sam's. “Sam...” His throat was dry. “If you're wondering where you stand with me...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! Thanks for reading! :) If you liked it, let me know, since I tend to assume nobody's reading by default. (Or, alternatively, if it gave you flashbacks to your own old writing projects that didn't quite work, we can lament together. xD There's a lot I'd change if I were starting from scratch now... but it makes a kinda time-capsule, and I'm just glad to have it all posted at last.)
> 
> Thanks again! :D


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